


God Save our Gracious Queen

by Ohbutthenightisyoung



Series: the happy and the glorious [1]
Category: British Royalty RPF, Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BRF, British Royal Family - Freeform, British Royals - Freeform, British Royalty RPF - Freeform, Drama & Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Royal Family - Fandom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 72,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25697521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ohbutthenightisyoung/pseuds/Ohbutthenightisyoung
Summary: What if the Royal visit hadn't quite turned out as everyone had planned? Can the Crawley's cope with what could be a tragedy not only for the house, but for the country?Update: slight title change
Relationships: Charles Carson/Elsie Hughes, Cora Crawley/Robert Crawley, Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon | Queen of England (1900-2002)/George VI of the United Kingdom, Isobel Crawley/Richard "Dickie" Grey, King George V/Queen Mary of Teck, Queen Mary/King George V, Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis, Tom Branson/Lucy Smith
Series: the happy and the glorious [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138394
Comments: 156
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, so this is my first ever fic. Please read and let me know what you think! This came to me out of absolutely nowhere and I don't know why I thought this'd be a good idea.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with Downton abbey, all rights belong to one Mr Julian Fellows. Also, I will refer to historically accurate things as best as I can, but obviously as I do not know everything about the time, nor did I live in it, I can’t account for everything so just roll with it :)
> 
> I have altered the King and Queens age by several years for reasons yet to be written.  
> Queen Mary born in 1874 instead of 1867, making her 53 instead of 60.  
> King George born in 1872 instead of 1865, making him 55 instead of 62.  
> Other than that I haven't changed much about the characters general information.
> 
> I've decided the tour takes place in the early spring, as the day of parade appeared to be quite cold.

Thursday 31st March 1927 - 4:00 pm

Lady Maud Bagshaw had a problem. Problems, by nature of the definition, were matters or situations considered unwelcome or harmful to the individual experiencing them. Now this particular issue took the form of one Violet Crawley, who seemed to be under the delusion that the Brompton fortune belonged to her own son, as the nearest male relation. It was for this reason Maud believed her presence at Downton Abbey during the Royal Tour would cause a most unwelcome situation; and with the woman in question attending, Maud was not entirely sure she could rule out bodily harm either. Violet could walk into any room and know that she commanded it. It only added to her list of insufferable qualities; quite a accomplishment to Maud’s mind as she wasn’t sure how many such qualities one could have. But she doubted anyone else even came close to Old lady Grantham. So yes, by all intents and purposes, Lady Maud Bagshaw did indeed have a problem. 

She was definitely being punished for her sins; and she was sure it was ‘sins’ plural as no one sin could warrant this. Though she couldn’t for the life of her name more than one that she'd committed.

She found herself lost in this thought, lulled by the rhythmic clacking of her heels as she was led towards the room the Queen was currently occupying by a footman. She had been the Queen’s lady-in-waiting for more years than she’d care to remember, although through those years they’d both found a confidant, a close friend.

Royal life for all its glamour could be quite a lonely one.

So preoccupied was she with her thoughts and woes, that she didn’t notice their arrival at the door and consequently had to stumble to an abrupt halt to avoid colliding with the back of the footman.

“The Lady Bagshaw, Your Majesty,”

The Queen raised her head from the various letters she was perusing through at the address, before rising to meet them with a slight smile on her face. “Ah good.”

The woman was tall yet exceeding graceful in her manner and movement. Her eyes and face, whilst aged slightly, still held the sparkle of her youth, and her hair though streaked with silver still remained honey-coloured, lightened from the brunette it once was. Her smile was rare, her true smile not done so overtly, as opposed to the small thin-lipped, though no less sincere one reserved for the public. She was by all accounts quite beautiful. Her voice had a velvety rasp from years of smoking, a paradox to her often kind tone, more fitting to her lesser known ferocious will than her public countenance.

Maud walked forward to curtsy and await instruction. Friend or not, rules still held fast when said friend was the Queen Consort of England.

“We’ll go to the 1844 room as soon as they’re here”, as Mary’s eyes met Maud’s as she reached the seating area, there was a slight twinkle in them, one Maud had come to understand meant she was in a good mood. As monarch, or consort, one could not express a wide nor free range of emotions without whispers of hysteria, as was the dramatics of the English upper class. But to those who knew her, Mary’s eyes expressed all. Notice her eyes and you shall notice all. “Do sit down”.

As she did, Maud noticed the letter in her Queen’s hand, one she had neglected to leave on the desk. For that reason alone, Maud assumed it to be from her husband, the King, which would also explain her mood. Maud sent a quick prayer of thanks for their happy marriage, not only in goodwill, but also in self-interest, for this would make what she had to say a little easier.

“I’ve just received the plan for the tour of Yorkshire, ma’am”.

Good. Solid start.

“Yes, it’s just been finalised, I think we’ll enjoy it” the Queen all but beamed.

Maud thought it best not to address it.

“I didn’t realise we would be staying at Downton abbey”, she fiddled nervously with the corner of the cover.

“Only for a night,” Mary sighed, “there’s to be a parade and a dinner and then we go on to Princess Mary at Harewood”. She smiled before returning her gaze to the letter she placed on the side table. ‘That must be a damn good letter’ thought Maud bitterly as she closed the folder, turning to her own side table.

“I just wondered if I might perhaps go straight to Harewood,” folder safely aside, she returned her gaze to the woman opposite only to be met with a questioning stare and an impeccably shaped arched eyebrow.

Maud sighed, “Lord Grantham is my cousin and the two families have …. fallen out, or at least we might if I were there in person,” she finished quickly.

Mary’s brow furrowed in concern. “And what would cause this quarrel?” she asked. A request from any other staff member, whilst not treated unkindly, would be likely brushed over, but Mary knew her friend and highly doubted she would have expressed such a desire lest she was deeply troubled.

“Lord Grantham’s mother believes her son should be my heir,” Maud’s exasperation was plain, and to be perfectly honest Mary couldn’t blame her. She knew well enough that were Violet Crawley went, an interrogation usually followed. One where answers were demanded rather than questions asked.

The experiences were rarely pleasant.

“Old Lady Grantham can be very hard to resist, as I am well aware,” Mary said. Maud’s shoulders visibly sagged in relief at the Queen’s understanding and sympathy to her plight, “Exactly ma’am.”

The Queen peered at Maud more closely, suspecting there was more to the matter than her dear companion was letting on. “But surely they need to know if their hopes are to be disappointed?” she queried.

Maud exhaled through her nose in a sign of frustration but nodded her head slightly in agreement to Mary’s words. She supposed it would have to be made clear one way or the another; hopefully without too much detail revealed, though she wasn’t naïve enough to believe that to be the likely outcome. A throat being cleared alerted Maud to the fact that the Queen was still staring at her, worry causing the lines to deepen between her brows. Maud offered a slight smile to alleviate her friends of her growing concern, but truth be told she was feeling a little guilty. Over the years the two had shared many a secret and thought, though Maud could not have bared the disappointment that was bound to be present on her lady’s face if she knew the truth about her maid Lucy Smith and why she really went to America all those years ago.

“My dear what’s troubling you?”

Maud stiffened as she realised she had been lost in thought again. Twice. In a private meeting with the Queen. Dear God, she needed to get a hold of herself.

“I do apologise ma’am,” Maud almost whispered, lowering her eyes to her lap.

“Come now my dear we’ll have none of that. I hope that we’ve been friends long enough for you to know that you can tell me what is bothering you?”

Maud shifted slightly in her seat at that. “O-of course ma’am, it’s only I am afraid it’s quite a delicate matter, and….” She paused.

“And?”

“And… I’m afraid you would be most disappointed in me,” Maud admitted. She was no longer staring at her lap but had moved her gaze to the rug. Blue, with a most unfortunate shade of maroon patterning, she had always hated it. Cream would have looked far better, though she supposed it would have been harder to keep clean, perhaps burgundy would be nicer….

“Maud.”

Maud startled, shyly raising her head. The Queen was looking at her with such tenderness she almost burst into tears.

Almost.

She was British after all.

Mary sighed softly. “My dear, you’ve known me long enough now to realise that there are few people I trust; or have indeed ever trusted. My Mother, my husband, my daughter, and you. You have been with me through the births of all six of my children and the death of one. You have never wavered, never made me doubt your loyalty or affection. You are easily one of my most treasured companions, and for that you have earnt my loyalty in return. We all make mistakes, whatever their scale. But know that whatever you say will not leave the confines of this room nor will be taken out of confidence.”

Those damn tears were threatening to fall again. Was she not an aristocrat? Could she not sway her own emotions? “Your Majesty, I…I am touched…but I do feel terribly guilty.”

“Guilty? How so my dear?”

“I’m afraid I have not been truthful to you.”

“Then be truthful now.”

It would be with a deep sigh and a heavy heart that Maud would recount her tale, how Jack came to her after her husband’s death, how they fell in love, Lucy… all the while unable to read her lady’s expression. By the time she had finished, Maud’s hands were shaking and yet Mary was still silent.

Taking a shaky breath Maud said “I understand ma’am if you are disheartened by what I have told you, but I refuse to no longer live my own life and I insist I do right by my own daughter, whatever others may say. I only hope that you can one day forgive me.”

“But you did love Jack Smith?”

A flicker of hope.

“Oh yes ma’am, very much so.”

“Well then,” the Queen smiled, “there’s absolutely nothing to forgive.”

“Ma’am?”

“It’s not very English to say but I am a romantic at heart, and I don’t believe anyone should miss out at the chance of love and true happiness. I was fortunate to find that I love my husband very much. I know you weren’t so lucky. So I stand by your decision, for Lucy.”

Maud’s smile grew so wide she didn’t know how it was still on her face, or if it was indeed reaching off the sides. “Oh, your majesty thank you. You’ve always been so kind. A true friend.”

Mary smiled back, reaching out her hand, laughing silently when Maud grasped it eagerly. “As you have also been to me. Now, I do believe my husband is due back any minute and I would quite like to be there to greet him before he rushes off again, I have missed him terribly. And I promise this trip will be enjoyable for us both”

There was no doubt the King loved his wife with all his being, as she did him. And they would be together for the whole length of the tour, as they so often spent long lengths of time apart. ‘Yes,’ thought Maud. ‘Maybe this tour wouldn’t be so bad after all.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, it gets fluffy towards the end of the chapter. MY GOD does it get fluffy. But it my defence it was not my fault.

Thursday 31st March 1927 - 7:30 am

“The King and Queen are coming to stay.”

As Robert lowered the letter, he stared into the two flabbergasted faces occupying the breakfast table, one sporting eyebrows raised so high they almost tangled in her hairline, the other with a forkful of scrambled eggs frozen halfway to his gaping mouth, which must have seemed far less appealing to the republican than they had a moment ago.

Mary, to no surprise, was the first to speak.

“What?” Disbelief and excitement coloured her tone. “During their Yorkshire tour?”

“That’s it! Just for a night.” Robert reread the letter, hastily skimming over the details. “They’ll spend one night at Downton and then go on to Harewood for a ball.” 

Mary glanced over at Tom, who had managed to swallow the eggs.

“While they’re here,” Robert continued “there’s to be a parade of the Yorkshire Hussars in the village. Is there any chance Henry might be back?” The ‘to keep Tom on a tight leash’ went unspoken.

Mary exhaled shakily. “Well I doubt it,” she said, glancing at Tom who shook his head slightly. “I’ll send a telegram. But there’s a motor show in Chicago that I know he cannot chuck.”

Tom was quietly chastising himself for refusing to go to Chicago in the first place. I’d rather be here? Wasn’t that what he had said? Bollocks. Complete and utter bollocks.

“Tom,” Lord Grantham sat down, shaking out his napkin with more force than was really necessary, “you’re keeping your enthusiasm under control.”

Here it comes.

“Is this the Irish Patriot making a reappearance?”

There it was.

Was he going to rise to it? No sir he was not. “I know you find my opinions highly entertaining.” Well. Maybe he would. Just a bit. If Mary’s side-eye was any indication. But then again, it was Mary.

Either way Robert was oblivious to it, as he so often was, tucking into his breakfast. “I suppose they’ll send people to check that Mrs Patmore isn’t a Russian spy.”

“Mm,” Mary agreed.

‘More’s the pity that she isn't,’ thought Tom.

“Will you tell them downstairs, Barrow?” Robert called over his shoulder whilst absentmindedly sawing at his bacon, giving a piece to Tio. “I’ll see to her ladyship.”

“Yes, Milord.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The reactions downstairs were as divided as the upstairs. Disbelief, excitement, awe, whispers of revolution.  
And panic.

Mostly panic.

Largely from Mrs Patmore.

In conjunction with barely suppressed eyerolls from both Mrs Carson and Daisy.

“A royal luncheon, a parade and a dinner?” Mrs Patmore’s voice was rising higher and higher in pitch with every word. “I’m going have to sit down.”

‘Before I knock you down’ thought Mrs Carson, imagining the many ways the teapot she was carrying could do the most harm whilst nodding along to pacify the short, plump, ginger hen with the ruffled feathers. Perhaps frantically flapping feathers would be a more apt description.

“Oh, what about Mr Branson?”

Mrs Carson couldn’t quite catch her eyeroll this time.

“What about him?” Andy asked, placing the cookbooks she piled in his arms on the table watching the dust rise up and form a cloud around the volumes.

“Well he’s a Republican isn’t he,” she screeched.

“Should Mr Carson look in?” Elsie thought she’d better step on this train of thought before it started moving. “No one is to say those words in front of him.” ‘Or me. I’ll have to keep him tied to his chair as it is,’ she added silently.

Daisy then decided to add her tuppence to the situation. “I agree with Mr Branson. I don’t like Kings either. I suppose that makes me a Republican too,” she sniped.

Andy snickered as he made his way towards the door. “Are the English allowed to be?” he threw over his shoulder as he was leaving.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday 1st April 1927 - 5:30 am

Maud sighed. Well the day had dawned and how utterly miserable it appeared to be too. How fitting. This was the day they were meant to commence on the tour of the North of England, and it looked bleak. The wind was so harsh that the rain was not so much falling as it was shooting sideways. And whilst Maud rarely stood against standards of decorum or voiced her opinion in adherence to them, she quite loudly in the comfort of her own room declared the morning a ‘bitch’ and demanded it ‘piss off’. She was silently contemplating telling the day exactly where it could piss off to, when a knock at her door interrupted her less than angelic thoughts.

“Come in,” she sighed as Lucy made her appearance from the other side of the door.

“Good morning, Mama,” the bonnie girl grinned, practically skipping over to her mother who was already sat at her vanity, placing a kiss on her cheek.

Maud smiled gently; the girl’s cheerfulness was usually a welcome distraction but today it did little to improve her mood. “Good morning, my darling. How did you sleep?”

“Fine, as always Mama. Though you look like you’ve slept very little. Which would explain why you rung so early.” Lucy was concerned for her mother; she knew the issue of the Grantham family was weighing heavily upon the small woman’s shoulders and made her rich brunette locks greyer by the hour, no matter how many times she told her she didn’t have to do it. Lucy was perfectly happy having found her dear Mama; she didn’t need a fortune to go with it.

“Is that your way of telling me I look old?” grumbled Maud, swivelling around to look at herself in the mirror.

“No, it’s my way of telling you to sleep.”

“I will when this is all over.”

“Mama I told you, you don’t have to do this.”

Maud turned around abruptly in her seat, just as Lucy was leaning forward to pick up the brush causing her to reel back to avoid a collision.

“And I’ve told _you_ , young lady, that I’ll be doing it. You’re my daughter, and even if we cannot broadcast that fact, at least you’ll be by my side as a companion.”

Lucy ducked her head to hide her blush and growing Cheshire cat grin. Maud took the moment to admire her beautiful daughter. Her hair is glossy and cut in a stylish bob, falls in soft waves around her face, the raven tresses accentuating her warm hazel eyes and soft features. Not unlike a younger version of her mother.

Maud grasped her daughter’s hand and placed a soft kiss on her knuckles before turning back to the mirror, allowing Lucy to continue her task. They spent the rest of their time together content and silent before they would get on with their separate days.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Sun was peeking through the gap in the curtains, slowly creeping its way up the bedspread towards the room’s inhabitants. The last remaining raindrops we’re gently rolling down the glass pane, making the reflection through the window seem even brighter. Two sleeping forms lay curled around each other, the smaller grasping the large arm wrapped around her waist while the larger occupant laid with his face buried in her hair, his breath caressing her neck in gentle puffs. 

As the sun reached the woman’s eyes it caused them to flutter open, exposing icy blue to the equally icy harshness of the early spring light. Shifting slightly to reclaim her sight, her movements caused her bed-mate to stir in his slumber.

Queen Mary smiled as she felt her husband’s arm tighten around her and his nose burrow further into her hair, as if to hide from wakefulness. It didn’t last long as with a deep sigh he emerged from the nest that was now her hair, their late night (and early morning) activities causing it to become frightfully tangled.

His eyes opened blearily before focusing on his wife’s face. A smile formed on his handsome features as his wife’s arm reached up to rake her fingers through his hair. He swiftly caught her arm and proceeded to place soft kisses up its length, her neck, cheek, and finally her lips.

He released her arm to allow it to wrap around his neck as their kiss deepened, drawing a soft moan from the woman beneath him. He was now laying on top of her as he broke their kiss, returning his face to her neck, inhaling the scent that was purely her.

Mary sighed in contentment, cradling her husband between her thighs and running her fingers through his hair, over his neck and across his strong muscular back.

He had arrived home after tea and had barely waited until they were alone before claiming her in a kiss that left her head spinning. Their reunion was sweet but short before they had to be ready for a dinner they were hosting.

Mary sighed again as she remembered how he had barely taken his eyes off her the whole evening, and how she could barely stay still, fiddling with the page of her book, not taking in any of the words, before he had joined her in her bedroom. She giggled as she recalled how George had quite literally swept her up off her feet and into his arms.

Her giggles caused him to raise his head, looking at her with an exasperated expression which only caused her to laugh harder.

“I do hope this is not at my expense,” he drawled, amused at his wife’s antics as she continued to giggle. Only the King knew the Queen giggled, how she bit her lip to fight the laughter bursting forward in company, and how she squealed in private when he tickled her along her ribs as he was doing so now. Her laughter rang out as she squirmed away from his touch.

Eventually she calmed down enough for him to ask, “and what, my darling, has you so amused at a quarter to six in the morning?”

Mary bit her lip as she gazed at him, trying to hold herself together before she burst into laughter again. “I was laughing at us darling.”

“Oh?” His eyebrow quirked with the question as he waited for the Queen to respond.

Mary nodded, smiling, “Mmhm. How we’ve been together all of 14 hours and these are the first words we’ve actually spoken to one another.”

His eyes sparkled in amusement. “Well, my dear, if you recall, my mouth was rather busy with other tasks of the utmost importance.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed. And I would have hated to be accused of neglecting my duty.” He said as he began kissing his way down her neck.

Mary exhaled sweetly and closed her eyes, “Far be it from me to stop you,” she drawled, “unfortunately we must get up. We have a county to visit.”

“Now that is unfortunate. That’s the worst news I’ve ever had. _Such_ bad news in fact that I feel I should just ignore it.”

“I’m afraid we can't,” she groaned, “lest you wish to give my maid a heart attack when I ring for her.”

“I think she’ll have a heart attack either way, my dear,” he murmured.

Her brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

He chuckled. “Go look in the mirror, sweetheart.”

Confused, she got out of bed and walked towards her mirror, leaving her husband to admire her retreating form, especially when she was stretching towards the mirror, exposing her long legs, her toned calves, her hips, her….

“GEORGE.”

She spun round, fury written across her features, ignoring his smug look at being caught staring.

“You absolute bastard! You…”

“Now, now. Temper, temper, my dear.”

“Oh, I’ll show you temper, old man.”

With that she launched herself across the room, and before George could react he was being pelted with a deceptively hard throw cushion.

“You.” THWACK “Marked.” THUMP “My.” THWACK “NECK.” She ground out through gritted teeth as she continued to assault her husband with a duck feather cushion. He had his arms raised up to shield his face from the continuing onslaught of attacks. What she wasn’t expecting was for those arms to quickly dart out and grab her waist.

She squealed as she was forced onto her back near the foot of the bed with George pinning down her arms to prevent her from continuing her assault.

“Did you just tackle me?” She asked incredulously, both of them breathing heavily.

“I felt it was to the only way to save myself.”

“I mean really, George did you have to do it?”

“I apologise profoundly my dear, but in my defence, what is a man to do when his wife is so delectable?”

“Control himself. As he is supposed to do in any other situation at 55 years of age.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining.”

“That’s not the point…”

“My dear I do believe our staff know that we share a bed, unless of course they are naïve enough to still believe that the stalk brings children.”

“But..”

He silenced her with his lips on hers. She both hated and loved how he could do that to her. Breaking their kiss, he finally let go of her wrists, placing a soft kiss to each, apologising for his roughness.

“And now I shall leave you to get ready. Tell your maid it was my fault.”

“It _was_ your fault.” He looked up from tying his robe.

“And yet I do not feel an ounce of regret.”

“George” she groaned, but his answering laughter was already out of the door. She rolled her eyes but could not stop the smile from breaking out on her face. She loved him so much it hurt and she was so glad he was back. Now they would spend a nearly month together touring the Northern counties of England. For the moment, life was marvellous.

*Bollocks= Typically a British colloquial phrase meaning nonsense; rubbish (used to express contempt or disagreement, an exclamation of annoyance, or an expletive following a minor accident or misfortune).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions about where this should go!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The others are informed of the royal visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've rearranged the order of some of the scenes from the film but nothing too drastic, so the general storyline should be familiar. 
> 
> Since there was little information about the tour itself, I decided to design it using British titles that owned houses In the North, even if that was only a secondary home. I wasn't sure of the time frame but I made it about three weeks long. Each house I mention is or was previously a family seat to the titles I name with them. Most titles, if not all still exist in Britain today and all houses are still standing.
> 
> Also despite it being a Yorkshire tour in the film, I expanded it to more of a tour of the northern counties, as Raby castle, which is mentioned in the film, is actually in the County Durham, which forms part of modern day Northumberland. I believe Durham was once part of Yorkshire but I was unsure of the year this change happened. Though most houses I mention are Yorkshire based, with only one or two in Lancashire and lower Northumberland.
> 
> I don't know if it's decided with area of Yorkshire Downton was set in, I decided to make it the North as its closer to both York and Ripon (North) than it is to Leeds (West) near to where Harewood is actually located. 
> 
> Anyways, on with the story!

Friday 1st April 1927 – 9:05 pm

“Maud Bagshaw is coming to Downton?” The disbelief in Violet’s voice was palpable. The two hadn’t set eyes on each other for nearly thirty years, and both were perfectly happy with it remaining so.

The others, save Robert and possibly Cora, had no idea who the woman even was.

“Yes,” Robert replied, verging on the edge of caution, “as the Queen’s lady-in-waiting.”

“Oh, my goodness.” Somehow the news wasn’t quite sinking in for her. Robert rolled his eyes at his mother’s dramatics whilst Mary looked over at her grandmother deciding she would help satisfy everyone else’s curiosity.

“Why so surprised? Who is she?”

“She’s a cousin of your father’s…” Violet opened her mouth to say more before Barrow’s arm appeared in her peripheral vision. “We’ll...we'll discuss it later.”

“You’re not to make things awkward.” Robert warned, and if Violet weren’t so desperate to change the subject, she would have chastised her son for continuing to discuss it, which would have only served to lengthen the discussion further. Oh, the irony.

For once she decided to take the high road. “How’s it all going?”

“Mary’s got it under control,” Robert sang in praise of his eldest. ‘At least he got the hint,’ thought Violet.

“Hardly,” Mary groaned. “There’s so much to do.” In truth, she really was worried they wouldn’t finish it all before the visit in just under a month’s time.

“Who were those men measuring on the green as we came past?” Dickie queried.

“They’re building the dais for the Queen at the parade.”

“Oh, how exciting.”

Isobel took this opportunity to voice her disproval. “Seems rather a waste of money.”

Violet mentally, and almost literally groaned at the appearance of her cousin’s radicalism. “Oh, here we go.” As if Tom wasn’t going to be enough to deal with.

“Isn’t that what the Monarchy’s for?” argued Cora. “To brighten the lives of the nation with stateliness and glamour?”

Violet silently cursed her daughter-in-law for handing Isobel more fuel to throw on the flames. She could practically feel the smugness radiating off her when she answered.

“To quote Tennyson, ‘Kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood.”

Violet wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

“Will you have enough clichés to get you through the visit?”

“If not, I’ll come to you.”

She gave up.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As always, the drawing room fire was lit when they entered, casting a rosy glow over the room and on the faces of the room’s residents, some of whom whose cheeks may have already been rosy for other reasons. Once the servants had ensured there was enough tea and brandy to last the night, they were dismissed with a simple ‘thank you’ and were sent down to enjoy their own supper.

“And now you were going to tell us about Lady Bagshaw. Is she a very distant cousin?”

“No, her father was my great-uncle,” Robert answered.

“Then why have I never heard of her?” Mary questioned, eager to know about the woman who had her grandmother twisted up in knots.

“Because she chose to cut herself off from the family.”

The drama appeared quite promising to Mary.

“Do you know the reason?”

“Maybe.” Violet could never resist a chance for theatrics. “See I believe she means to cheat your father of his rightful inheritance. She has no children; your father is her nearest relation.”

“I won’t have her put on the spot.” Robert tried, knowing she’d do it anyway. She’d never listened to him before so why break a lifelong habit now.

“You’re plotting something,” Isobel observed. “I see a Machiavellian look in your eye.”

“Machiavelli is frequently underrated. He had many qualities.”

“So did Caligula, not all of them charming,” quipped Isobel, hearing rather than seeing her husbands amused huff from behind her.

Mary couldn’t resist a smile either. “What are you up to, Granny?”

Violet rounded her gaze on her eldest grandchild. “Well ideally, I would like Maud to see your father as the son she never had.”

“Will she be the mother I never had?”

Violet pursed her lips. Cheeky sod. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maud was exhausted. They'd arrived at their first stop on the tour, Abbeystead House in Lancashire, at around 4:30 after 5 hours of driving. They'd been given a tea of course, and were then released to go and change for the dinner. The dinner itself had dragged on and on, though the food was pleasant, the Duke of Westminster could be dreadfully dull. Mercifully, he mostly engaged in conversation with the King, leaving Maud and the Queen largely on their own. 

Even Mary was finding the evening rather taxing. Praise God that they were only here for one night. When the earliest suitable hour arrived, Mary excused herself for bed, feigning tiredness from the day's travel, meaning Maud also was free to leave if she wished. And she did wish, very much so. 

Closing the door of the bedroom she'd been assigned, she let out a bone-weary sigh. If this evening was any indication this was going to be one hell of a long tour. 

After this evening at Abbeystead House they were to continue their tour first through the south of Yorkshire, moving from the west to east. 

They would be spending two nights at Wortley Hall with the Earl of Wharncliffe, before moving on to the Marquess of Rockingham at Wentworth Woodhouse for a night.

They then move on to spend two nights with the Earl and Countess of Scarborough at Sandbeck Park, completing their tour of South Yorkshire before moving up to the north of the county.

Their first stop in North Yorkshire would be Duncombe Park, hosted by the Earl of Feversham for another two nights, moving on to Bolton Hall with Baron Bolton for one night. 

Then it would be Castle Howard for three nights with the Earl of Carlisle, Aske Hall with the Marquess of Zetland for one night, followed by Mulgrave castle in Whitby with the Marquess of Normanby for two nights. Next was the Duke of Norfolk at Carlton towers for a night before moving to the East Riding of Yorkshire, for the Duke of Devonshire at Londesborough Hall for two nights. She understood that there was to be a combination of parades, picnics, walks, and shooting throughout all houses.

They would move up to visit two households in Northumberland, Lambton castle with the Earl of Durham for a night and then Raby castle for one more night with the Earl of Westmorland. 

It was bloody long winded if she said so herself.

Then, oh then. The day of Thursday the 28th of April would arrive. The day that as far as Maud was concerned should be considered Armageddon. That was the day they were due to arrive at Downton Abbey.

Maud dreaded that day with every fibre of her tiny being. She'd much rather seek comfort at Harewood or in her own estate in Cumbria, Brampton estate, which housed her family home of Naworth castle. The estate that Maud knew all too well Old Lady Grantham would fight to get her hands on. 

Maud slumped on her bed in defeat. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There were blessedly few things Elsie May Carson regretted in life. That she hadn’t visited her mother much before she'd died. How she hadn’t met and married Charles at a younger age. Testifying against Mr Bates. Not telling her husband she didn’t actually like the ’55 Margot (they now drank it with nearly every meal).

What she regretted most however, was informing her husband that the British sovereign would be gracing the halls of Downton Abbey. That very quickly went to the top of her list. _Very_ _quickly_.

He’d been at the door to welcome her home with a smile and a kiss to the cheek. He’d taken her coat and led her to the table where he presented the dinner he’d prepared (Mrs Patmore eat your heart out). It was a pleasant affair, even if she had washed down her dinner with another damn Margot, and she’d thought it would have been the perfect moment to mention the royal visit.

It hadn’t been. He driven her mad with his fretting in the fifteen minutes it had taken her to finish her desert and clear the table. Eventually she’d banished him to the living room, having tuned out most of what he’d said anyway, where she was 97% sure he’d have worn a hole through the rug with his pacing.

As she joined him, she was pleased to note her rug was still in one piece, though she could have sworn it looked more faded than last she saw it an hour ago. Her husband looked worse than last she’d seen him as well, and that hadn’t nearly been as long.

“Charles Carson will you calm yourself!” Elsie exclaimed. “You’ll give yourself a heart attack if you carry on like this!”

“Elsie the King and Queen are coming to Downton! This is no time for relaxation, there too much to be done! Are you sure you shouldn’t have had dinner at the house?! Preparations will take every waking hour of the day…”

“Then it’s a good job it's not your problem anymore.” She snapped. “And whinging and fretting won’t contribute helpfully to the situation so if you’ve nothing constructive to add I suggest you remain quiet!”

He was looking at her like a wounded puppy, but she couldn’t afford to back down now.

“Now I’m going to bed. You may join me when you’ve regained your senses and realise that I know how to do my bloody job!”

And with that she stormed out of the room, taking out her frustrations on every step she stamped her foot on as she ascended to their room.

She was almost asleep when she felt the bed dip next to her and a tentative arm sneak around her waist. She relaxed under his touch, letting him know she wasn’t annoyed anymore. Honestly she was too exhausted to do anything but sleep, had she been more alert however, she may have given him another earful.

“I’m sorry, Elsie.” She felt him rumble next to her. “You’ve never been anything but exceptional at your work, I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Elsie sighed, turning over to face him. She reached up to caress him cheek, her fingers catching slightly at the stubble on his cheeks.

“Darling I know you’ve some difficulty remembering that your place isn’t at Downton anymore. I understand that I can’t unpick a lifetime of duty, but you must try, for both our sakes. Otherwise you’ll run yourself ragged and push my stress levels through the roof.”

Charles nodded, turning his face to place a kiss on her palm. Satisfied they’d resolved their argument, Charles laid back, bringing Elsie with him to lie with her head on his shoulder as both husband and wife drifted off on anticipation of a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	4. Chaper 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, but here's a long chapter to make up for it.

Wednesday 13th April 1927

Spring mornings are notorious for their chill, particularly those of the British Isles. The thin, iridescent layering of frost a remembrance of the crueller winter months, and yet its delicacy a hint of the gentle and muted nature of the season to follow. The icy bite always seemed intensified in the countryside air, particularly in areas so close to the moors, where those who dwell there are fewer in numbers than near the palaces of central London. Castle Howard truly was a beautiful estate, surrounded by fields and elegant pines, one of which would be cut down every year for the hall's magnificent Christmas tree. Mary had fond memories of visiting the estate as a child, as a descendant of King George III, despite also being a German princess, she received an upbringing entirely based in Britain and was therefore familiar with the land’s grand estates. Howard had always been one of her favourites.

This was their third and final night spent in the company of Lord and Lady Carlisle, she was sad to say. They’d had a marvellous time, even her dear Lady Bagshaw had managed to unwind some. The Carlisle’s really were wonderful hosts; the days were stuffed with activities, teas and dinners, all formal in appearance, but the manner of them would put anyone at ease. In fact, just this morning they’d enjoyed a nice long walk and accompanying picnic on the moors. It seemed to be working for everyone else but her. She could see the tension leaving George’s brow as each day past, even Maud forgot her troubles; and yet Mary could not find peace within this sanctuary. She was afraid she had rather let her gloomy thoughts affect her mood and could only hope it had not appeared too obvious. To be perfectly honest she wondered if it wasn’t all getting a bit too much, if she wasn’t getting too old. The tour was taking its toll on her and she hadn’t really been feeling particularly well as of late. She needed to slow down. Though of course that posed a minor problem and inconvenience in royal life. She hadn’t told her husband any of this of course, as much as she loved him, he couldn’t quite grasp how to simply be a man and not constantly be the leader of the establishment. He was first and foremost duty above all else and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t the same. But unlike her husband, Mary knew her limits. Limits she was rapidly approaching. 

She sighed, lost in thought as she gazed out of the window, catching the attention of her maid who was finishing the final touches to her hair.

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

Mary snapped out of her trance, sparing a quick smile for her maid. “Quite thank you, Applin.”

Miss Applin nodded, smiling gently before reaching for the tiara the Queen would be wearing this evening. The Kokoshnik Tiara that had belonged to Mary’s mother-in-law, Queen Alexandra. All tiaras had a bit of weight to them, but this one was particularly heavy. It made Mary’s neck ache something terrible. She winced slightly as the full weight settled on her head. Yet, with practiced grace, she rose with ease from her seat at the vanity, hands out in expectation of the gloves Miss Applin was holding. The maid remained silent, sensing her mistress would not appreciate light conversation.

A soft knock sounded at the door before it opened, revealing the King, already dressed in his jacket and britches. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but promptly shut it upon realising her maid was still in the room.

“Will that be all ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Mary continued to fiddle with her gloves as the door closed behind her maid, finally managing to get them into the right position. George cleared his throat to gain her attention, only then did Mary look up at him. He seemed itching to say something but was uncharacteristically withholding.

The Queen arched her eyebrow in question. “Yes?”

George shifted slightly on his feet.

Mary resisted the urge to bite at him. “What’s the matter, George?” She could feel her patience dwindling by the second.

“I feel as if I’m the one who should be asking that my dear.”

“Oh?”

“You seem quite down, have you not enjoyed yourself? The tour has been a wonderful success so far.”

She let out a quiet humourless laugh at that. Of course. He thought she was displeased with the tour’s success. Not that she was plainly tired and run down, not that she needed a break. No. Everything was going wonderfully, why shouldn’t she be happy.

She forced a smile.

“Everything’s fine. Now let’s go down before they wonder where we are.”

And with that she walked out of the room, ignoring her husband’s hurt expression and worried gaze. She couldn’t deal with that as well. Not now.

\-------------------------------

It truly was a lovely dinner, quite possibly the best on the trip so far. Yet the evening didn’t have quite the same cheery atmosphere, at least not for the two guests of honour. Mary’s mood hadn’t improved much, and George was concerned for his wife, glancing her way every so often to see her uncharacteristically picking at the food on her plate, accompanied with a disheartened look on her features. She had even barely touched any of the souffle served for dessert. That really alarmed the King, it was one of her absolute favourites. The concern grew with each glimpse as her expression had not changed. He did so wish she’d tell him what was wrong. 

At last the dinner had finished, a faint clatter of cutlery signalled permission to stand and make their way to the parlour. Only the King and Lady Bagshaw noticed the Queen’s grip tighten on the back of her chair as she rose, her knuckles stretched into a stark white. She let her eyes flutter close briefly, taking a deep breath before soldiering on as if nothing had happened, continuing to pacify Lord Carlisle in conversation about racing by pretending to listen, when in reality she really couldn’t give a damn. George shared a fleeting look of disquiet with Maud, who in return gave a slight shake of her head, indicating that she had no idea either. George tilted his head slightly towards the door signalling that she should follow him.

When at last they had exited the dining room (why it had to be such a lengthy process, he did not know, but as was the way of the aristocracy), and as soon as was polite for him to shake off Lady Carlisle, Maud approached the King.

He turned to his wife’s companion with a calm expression, only his eyes conveyed his fear Maud noted with sympathy.

“Lady Bagshaw, do you know what’s wrong with my wife? I really am most worried.”

“I have no idea; she won’t say a word to me. She’s barely been eating and she’s exhausted.”

George’s face crumpled further with worry for Mary. He surveyed the room, landing on his wife’s profile, perched on the sofa quietly nodding along to Lady Norfolk’s monologue. He noticed not for the first time that evening how pale she looked, shadows forming under her eyes. She looked weak.

George exhaled loudly through his nose, displaying his agitation with the situation. Maud looked on in concern. “She needs rest, sir. But she won’t do so of her own accord.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

Maud sighed. She supposed she could accompany the Queen back to London. But it would raise too many questions, and the last thing Mary enjoyed was being centre of attention. But was the tour worth sticking out?

“I don’t know”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Joseph Moseley was by no means a young man. Nor was he a fit and healthy man. Not that he was ever really fit and healthy when he was young either. But when his father told him the news of the Royal visit over a dinner they were having at the Grantham arms, he very well could have set a new record in the time it took him to run to the abbey.

That’s right. He ran. Forgetting his father at the pub in the process, but news such as this did not warrant a leisurely walk, or apparently a meal with relatives. It deserved a sprint up the long drive with little regard of respiration.

The servant’s entrance door slammed behind him, his shoes clattering on the tiles and his breath coming out in wheezes, echoing as he jogged the short distance to the servant’s hall.

“Oh. Hello.” Came Mrs Carson’s surprised greeting, followed by a very enthusiastic welcome from Mr Bates. “Mr Moseley! Very late for you to be out.”

The poor man was so desperate to hear the news that he didn’t acknowledge either of the greetings.

“Is it true?” He panted, eyes darting from person to person, hoping to receive the confirmation he craved.

“Is what true Mr Moseley?” Mrs Patmore asked, suspecting she already knew the answer.

“Mr Bakewell has said you’ve warned him that there was to be a royal visit!”

“Well now I know who not to trust with a secret.”

Mr Moseley ignored her quip, instead his eyes took on a wistful look. “That we should deserve such honour!” He seemed blissfully unaware at the looks of discomfort that were being shared around him.

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Not you, too. I am disappointed.”

“Ignore ‘er!” Mrs Patmore exclaimed.

Mr Moseley hadn’t heard either of them anyway as he turned to the young Butler. “I wonder, do you think I might be allowed to slip on my livery again?”

“Would the school let you?” Mrs Patmore queried.

“Oh! They’ll give me time for this I promise!”

That was exactly what Thomas was afraid of. He only hoped there was some way to persuade him otherwise.

“Let’s wait until we know our orders.”

God bless you Mr Bates.

“What about it, Mr Barrow?” Damn him. He’s like a dog with a bone. “Will you let me wait upon my King and Queen.”

“Uhhhh…well…I”

He was quite literally saved by the bell. The parlour bell to be precise, alerting all maids, valets and butlers alike that the family were ready to retire for the evening. All immediately jumped to their feet, eager to leave the awkward atmosphere. Moseley was caught in the bustle, dismissed with a ‘good night’ from Mrs Patmore and a sympathetic smile from Baxter.

“How exciting!” He exclaimed.

Daisy watched it all happen with disbelief written on her features. “They’re all mental! All this fuss for a man and woman we don’t even know.”

“No, nevermind that.” Mrs Patmore decided to halt the steamroller in its tracks. “I wanted to tell you; I’ve had some ideas about what to serve at your wedding!”

“Stop going on about my wedding!”

—————————————————————-

Tuesday 26th April 1927

4:30 am

The mail trains ran at first light, from King’s Cross station in central London, every morning of every day. Early enough that even in the height of summer, the day had not dawned. The steam pouring from the engine only caused the air to become thicker and darker. Little noise could be heard over the whistle of the locomotive. As the mail bags were being loaded into the sorting compartment, the passengers entered their own compartments, one individual carrying a medium brown leather suitcase and a determined expression choosing a compartment closest to the rear of the train.

The train gave a lurch, jerking the passengers in their seats, signalling the start of the 217-mile journey from London to York. The city transitioned into farmland, the scenery whipping into a blur as the train gathered speed. The first signs of dawn were beginning to seep through into the dark blue. It would still be early when he entered Yorkshire.

The rhythmic clattering of the wheels lulled the lone, solemn traveller into a sense of peace, allowing him to contemplate his task ahead. He would meet his accomplice in the Downton high-street, near Branson motors. The rest would be decided from there. 

—————————————————————-

Tuesday 26th April 12:18 pm

“We’ve only a few days left so I spoke to Her Ladyship, and she’s agreed our normal rules should be suspended. We won’t clean a room if a family member is using it, but otherwise all restrictions are lifted. No detail should be left undone, however small. I want every surface in this house to gleam and sparkle by Thursday.”

“Blimey.” Andy chuckled; a sentiment echoed by all household staff who were present for Mrs Carson’s speech. Downton Abbey may have not been the grandest house in all of Great Britain, but it was by no means the smallest.

“Can I have your attention please?” A hush fell over the room as the butler prepared to make his announcement.

“At four this afternoon their Majesties butler, Mr Wilson, will be coming over from Raby castle with a lady’s maid and a valet.”

“To give us our instructions?” Mr Bates asked. Mr Barrow answered with a nod.

Miss Baxter was the next to raise a question. “With the royal servants are we to wait on them?”

“That is what will be made clear.”

That particular thought caused murmurs of discontent amongst the staff, led by Daisy loudest of them all with a firm “I won’t be waiting on any valets and lady’s maids thank you very much!”

Once the revolutionaries had been pacified the staff sat down to their own dinner, the conversation was lively and speculative, given the announcements. Mrs Carson was deep in conversation herself with Mr Barrow.

“Do you suppose they’ll impose much?” she asked after swallowing her mouthful of roast potato.

“I suspect we’ll be told exactly how things ought to be handled and presented, but other than that I honestly have little idea of what to expect. Why?” 

Elsie shook her head, “just wondering. We’ve never had a royal visit before. Certainly not whilst Mr Carson and I have worked here.”

“And how has your husband taken the news?”

Elsie smirked. “To be perfectly honest Mr Barrow, I’ve been contemplating slipping whiskey into his tea to put him to sleep just so I can hear myself think.”

Mr Barrow chuckled. He had no doubt she probably was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's quite a few scenes compacted into one chapter for this one. Hope you enjoy.

Tuesday 26th April – 3:30 pm

Emerging from a side alleyway into the main high-street of Downton, Major John Chetwood was hit by the sun’s glare, causing him to lose visibility for a few seconds. A most inconvenient occurrence because he was in fact looking for someone.

The shrill ringing of the tram bell diverted his attention to the left where the tram was just moving on from its stop. There, just under the shade of the of the surrounding buildings was a young gentleman. He couldn’t have been older than 30, his dark hair visible underneath his charcoal grey hat which matched his coat and trousers. His coat lay open to reveal his three-piece suit underneath and the gold chain of his watch glinted in the sun. But his appearance Chetwood actually paid truly little attention to. What in actual fact had caught his eye was the suitcase the gentleman was carrying in his right hand. Or more accurately the red ribbon tied around the base of its handle, as they had agreed.

The Major kept his gaze fixed on the young man as he approached, inclining his head in greeting as he got close enough, as was greeted also in the like.

“Major,” the young man spoke first, his voice betraying his higher-class upbringing. “Good to finally meet you at last.”

The two shook hands firmly, a solemn understanding passed between the two.

“Indeed, Mr..?”

“Atkinson. Charles Atkinson. I see our contact neglected to give you my name.”

“One can never be too careful, but Williamson was always overly cautious about everything, even when we served together.”

“Fair enough. Is that the place?” He asked, indicating towards the store that stood on the other side of the road. It was freshly painted and clean, its sign reading in huge letters: “Talbot and Branson Motors.”

The Major nodded in affirmation as they watched one of the men in question enter the shop. “Quite. Now, I’ve already set up at the Grantham Arms, I assume you’ll want to do the same?”

“I shall. And I presume you’ll be going to meet Mr Branson?”

“Just to gage his response more or less. I’ll meet you back at the pub.”

The two men parted ways, the Major heading to meet Mr Branson, and hopefully gain a third accomplice.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tuesday 26th April 4:13 pm

“I will return to Raby Castle and come back to Downton in advance of Their Majesties on Thursday. But His Majesty’s valet, Mr Ellis, and Her Majesty’s dresser, Miss Lawton will stay on if that is convenient or they can put up in the village.”

“No, we’ll find them rooms.” Mrs Carson replied cheerfully. So far everything seemed fair and calm, there weren’t too many demands. Of course, she had chided herself in the past on her ability to always seem to speak to soon.

“Then Monsieur Courbet, the chef…”

Hang on a minute.

“E-Excuse me.” Mrs Patmore butted in. “Mr Courbet, the chef?”

“That’s right.” Mr Wilson appeared undeterred, clearly used to such questions. “We’d be very grateful if you could make the kitchens ready.”

‘Well I suppose that’s that,’ thought Mrs Patmore. “So, what shall I order?” She said, fighting to keep the smile on her face. It was very quickly wiped from her face.

“Nothing. He will bring it all.”

“And we don’t cook any of the food?” Asked Daisy incredulously.

“Um, cook for the servants. Monsieur Courbet won’t have time for that.”

“Oh, I see! That is something to look forward to” Exclaimed Mrs Patmore in irony. Her voice was getting higher and higher in pitch every time she spoke. A sign she was not impressed.

“Calm yourself, Mrs Patmore. If it’s the way these things are done…” Mrs Carson warned the cook to speak no further. Mr Wilson’s next words however had her narrowing her own eyes.

“Mrs Webb and four footmen will arrive with Monsieur Courbet tomorrow.”

“Who is this Mrs Webb is it?” She asked cautiously, trying to remain bright.

“She is the housekeeper.” Replied Mr Wilson. “She will also bring two maids with her.”

Mrs Carson was sure she had misheard him. And judging by the bemused looks on her colleagues faces, especially Mrs Patmore who had her mouth open wide enough to catch flies, thought so too. “The Housekeeper?”

“While Their Majesties are here.”

Mmmm we’ll see about that. “And the maids?”

At this Mr Wilson clearly lost his patience. “They will make the beds! Clean the bathrooms – that sort of thing!” He exclaimed patronisingly, as if he were explaining it all to a child.

‘Yes, I bloody well know what maids do you imbecile. It’s not as if I’ve been a HOUSEKEEPER for four decades!’ thought Mrs Carson. She was combating the urge to rip him a new one, and so was biting down so forcefully on her tongue she was sure it was bleeding.

“I see.” She managed in a measured tone. Her voice only wavered slightly in her anger. “So, my maids and I will not be involved in the preparations?”

Mr Barrow decided to clear matters up before fists started swinging. Namely Elsie Carson’s fist. Towards Mr Wilson. He wasn’t quite sure where she’d choose to aim.

“You mean, during the stay, you’ll be the butler, and…”

Only this seemed to rattle Mr Wilson. “Excuse me.” He snapped. “I am not a butler.”  
He spat the word as if it were poison in his mouth. “I am the King’s Page of the backstairs.” Oh yes. Because that was much more dignified. Stifled sniggers could faintly be heard in the quietness of the room. Only the senior staff remained too angry to give a damn what the man called himself.

“So our staff has nothing to do?” Mr Bates found his voice, standing up to the injustice of it all.

“I’m sure they can be useful,” Mr Wilson replied soothingly, clearly oblivious or at  
least unfazed by the malice in the valet’s tone.

Daisy had finally confused herself too much trying to sort the situation in her own head and decided to voice the source of her dilemma. “But how can they eat and get dressed at Raby Castle if the chef and the valet and the maid are all here?”

“We have two of each.” The man continued as if it were a normal occurrence to have such staff, taking two sets of instructions from his case and passing them to the senior duo, talking as he went.  
“The principal valet and the principal dresser will arrive in advance of Their Majesties, who bring an equerry, a lady-in-waiting, two detectives and two chauffeurs. The other chef goes from Raby to Harewood, four footmen go with him and the other four come here. Do you all understand me.”

It was not a question, but had it been nobody would have known what to say anyway.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tuesday 26th April 4:35 pm

“Violet I cannot understand why you won’t just let the matter go!”

Isobel Merton’s voice rang loud and clear over the peacefulness of the serene spring evening. Birds would have cleared out of the trees from the sheer volume if they had not done so already. For she had been engaged in ‘conversation’ with Violet for the best part of forty minutes, which had involved them shouting at each other for the entire length of the walk up to the Abbey. Neither seemed intent on stopping either, marching along at a pace that belied both their ages and Violet’s dodgy hip.

“You cannot possibly expect to resolve this during the visit, because I daresay you can hardly heckle Lady Bagshaw in front of the Queen!”

“I’m just trying to prevent a crime!”

Oh, there really was no matching Violet’s logic.

“Who says it’s a crime!?” Isobel asked, knowing full well who said it was.

“I do.”

“Oh, and you’re an expert in the matter?”

“I’m an expert in every matter.” She spoke with an air of finality that Isobel couldn’t be bothered contending with anymore.

Isobel sighed. She might as well get on board the train if she was going to be dragged behind it either way. “You must have some idea why she doesn’t want Robert as her heir.”

“I have none! He is her closest relative. The family have held Brompton for three centuries! But she wants to give it to… who? Charity? The Dog’s home?” Violet let out a high-pitched laugh, gesturing wildly with her hands, almost clipping Isobel in the ankle with her cane.

“Well I would have thought the family had enough to worry about.”

“That’s not the point.”

Of course it wasn’t.

“Well, very well. We must try and discover her reasonings.” Said Isobel, once again deciding it was easier to humour Violet than get ploughed down in the process.

“Well what possible reasons can there be ?!” Violet’s shrill voice sounded out.

Isobel growled quietly. “Well that’s what I intended to find out.” She ground out through gritted teeth. They passed the rest of their walk to the abbey in silence. A rare, and unanimous wise decision on both their parts.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wednesday 27th April 8:15 am

The crunch of gravel sounding beneath his feet felt as comforting and familiar as slipping into his butler’s livery. Each step closer to the house was like taking a deep breath of cool crisp air; pride puffing up his chest as he gazed on the grounds he was once again to take charge of. If only temporarily. And much to his wife’s chagrin (he was sure she had purposefully burnt his dinner).

But once Lady Mary had pleaded for his help, wild horses could not come between him and his task. Not even his wife, who had a temper far more fearsome than a herd of thundering animals. And Barrow wouldn’t clean the silver? Insisting the King’s page would choose? No sir, not at Downton Abbey. The Butler was more than capable of what looked good on a dining table; he had pride for goodness sake!

No, soon things would be sorted, and the visit would be running smoothly. How could it not with Charles Carson at the helm?

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wednesday 27th April 4:00 pm – Harewood House

“The Marchioness of Hexham, the Countess of Grantham, the Lady Mary Talbot.”

The Princess Royal stood waiting for her guests next to the fireplace, the clock on its mantel striking four. They were right on time.

“Your Royal Highness.”

Mary smiled fondly at the Countess’ American accent as she watched the three women dip into deep curtsey; she did indeed love the sound of it.

“Please, sit down, Lady Grantham.” She said, gesturing to the table nearest the window.

“I suppose you’re in turmoil because of my parents’ visit. I do sympathise.”

“We don’t need to explain it you.”

Mary laughed, indeed she did not. “Just don’t paint anything. They’re sick of the small of new paint.” She warned jokingly, pouring hot water into the teapot.

“Are you living here now ma’am?” questioned Edith, curious to know if the Princess and her husband had been given more senior roles.

“No. No, we’re still at Goldsborough.” She said, placing the lid back onto the pot, letting the tea brew. “But Lord Harewood’s not well, so we’ve come to run the visit and the ball.” She could feel her face tightening at the thought of her husband, she only hoped her smile appeared sincere enough for her guests not to notice.

Oh, how Mary wished she could leave him, find happiness elsewhere. That’s not to say they were never happy, but somewhere along the way they stopped trying. And her parents were no help; she loved them dearly but their stance on the situation was not comforting. In fairness, she could see her mother was deeply troubled by her unhappiness, and if her mother knew then there was an exceedingly high chance her father knew also. But the King and Queen could not condone divorce, no matter how much they loved their daughter. So, she was stuck.

Mary was broken from her melancholy thought by the door handle turning. It opened to reveal her two sons, each holding a hand of their nanny.

“Oh, hello. Hello, my darlings.” Mary face broke out in the widest of smiles. It warmed Cora’s heart to see the Princess’ clear love for her children as she hoisted the youngest onto her lap, almost forgetting she had guests at all. It was no secret that the marriage between the princess and the earl was tense.

Cora was pleased to see she was still happy in some regard, however long that happiness would last.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wednesday 27th April 6:30 pm

Chaos.

Complete and utter chaos.

In fact, the word ‘chaos’ could not accurately convey the situation at hand.

It was beyond chaos, whatever name that state of being had.

Mr Barrow watched in smug amusement as Mr Carson attempted to regain control of the many Royal staff members that were zipping from one place to another, with the Downton staff members pressed up against the walls to avoid being trampled. Of course, he hadn’t been able to resist rubbing it in that the man had practically insisted he could do the job better. He’d been so good with controlling his spitefulness, he was allowed a reward surely.

Mrs Patmore’s voice could be heard from the kitchen, three floors up, as Monsieur Courbet attempted to take control of her domain. In fairness, the man was a total prig. A prig with a French accent. The Englishman in Thomas disliked him even more for it. The footmen were running circles around Mr Carson, Mr Wilson had commandeered the Butler’s pantry, so the poor man couldn’t even sit down to regain his bearings. And Mrs Webb was neck and neck with Mrs Carson, each woman determined to come out on top. “I am the housekeeper,” was probably the most heard phrase that afternoon. It was a wonder they hadn’t started clawing at each other’s eyes.

Only Mr Ellis, his Majesty’s secondary valet, seemed to be sane. Even Miss Lawton appeared to have a few screws loose, singing praises about her own reputation. He, on the other hand, (Mr Ellis that is) was charming, witty, level-headed. And handsome. Did he mention he was handsome?

Mr Barrow shook his head, to clear it of any thoughts regarding the valet. Whilst there was no harm in looking or thinking, he was determined not to fall down that rabbit hole again. He didn’t want to have to change his name to Alice and start talking to flowers. That was one way to swiftly lose employment.

Either way it didn’t matter. Not only was it illegal, but it wasn’t worth spoiling a friendship. Especially not when said new friend was taking you to York in the morning for a day’s trip. He’d accepted some time ago that he’d never find a romantic partner. At least he had friends now, and steady employment. He was far from lonely. But that never stopped people wanting more.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wednesday 27th April 8:09 pm

“Carson, what is it?” Lady Mary asked in concern. The dinner was a buffet tonight, family only, there was no one to serve tonight as the staff were too busy with other matters. For the Butler to enter mid meal with a pensive look on his face could not mean good news.

“Some folding chairs… well, a great many chairs have been delivered, they’re at the back door. Anna thought you should be told at once.”  
Mary’s panic reached new levels at what Carson was telling her, absolutely nothing was going according to plan. She allowed herself a moment with her head in her hands before snapping into action.

“She’s right, they’re for the parade. And we’ll have to set them out tonight, there’ll be no time tomorrow as the villagers with start arriving from nine onwards,” She said in one breath, abandoning her dinner and marching out of the room.

“I’m not sure fate is on our side.” Said Dickie, in sympathy with his goddaughter’s plight.

“Poor little Mary. Have we let her take on too much?” Asked Robert.

“Yes, you’re right. Come on. We should lend her a hand.”

“You can’t go out in this.” Scoffed Cora, despite the fact her eldest daughter had just mere seconds ago.

“Of course, we can,” bolstered Robert. “Good night, Mama. Remember to pray for us. Mainly for better weather.”

“I’ll put in a word.” Violet called after her son. “Of course, ‘little Mary’ could hammer in a tent peg with her teeth.” She snickered.

“I wonder who she got that from.” Sniped Isobel.

“You know, I’m always surprised when you praise me.”

“I’m surprised to hear that I have.”

\- - - - - - -

The rain was just not letting up. All six individuals were soaked to the skin through their various coats, hats and gloves. Their shoes were sinking into the ground faster than they could lift them out, and the chairs were collecting large pools of water on the seats.

“We’ll bring a special chair up for the Queen after breakfast when, hopefully, it will have stopped raining.”

“I shall carry it myself, milord.” Mr Moseley called, with a flourish of his hand for emphasis. Honestly, nothing could dampen that man’s moral. Quite literally.

“Well, what about the King?” shouted Anna, over the thundering of the raindrops on the wooden panels.

“Well, he’ll be on his horse.”

“But suppose it’s still raining?”

“God will make it stop!”

Robert raised his head from lifting chairs out of the truck, in time to see a familiar figure emerging from the pub, cutting across the field back up towards the abbey.

“Is that Tom?” He called to Mary in disbelief. “Has he been in the pub the whole evening?” He harrumphed his disapproval, turning back to the task at hand. Mary on the other hand stood still, staring at Tom’s retreating back, wondering what he was really up to.

From one of the upper floor room windows, two figures were also watching Tom walk back towards the house. Their silhouettes were lit by the two lamps in the room.  
“Do you really think he’ll go along with it?” Charles asked his companion. “Do you think he can be trusted?”  
John stayed silent for a moment before answering. “I don’t know. But what I do know is that he’s only knows about one of us. It will be done, whether he tries to stop it or not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dunnn


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm sorry for the wait, just busy moving into university! Eek! 
> 
> Anyways, here's a nice long chapter to make up for the wait. Things are finally starting to move a little faster in this story, even if I did have to force the inspiration to come.

Thursday 28th April 1927 8:40am

The total distance of travel between Raby Castle and the village of Downton was roughly fifty miles. Fifty miles of rolling green landscapes, dotted with the occasional village or farm. 

Fifty miles of feeling every single bump in the road.

It was all Mary could do to fight the rising nausea occurring every time she was jostled from side to side. Which was unfortunately frequent. Thankfully, her husband seemed blissfully unaware of her internal struggle, content to gaze at the passing scenery.

It had been Maud that had found her this morning, hunched over the lavatory in the adjourning bathroom of her rooms at Raby Castle, heaving into the bowl. She had said nothing, only moved to gather the Queen’s long hair in her own hands from the hasty pile Mary had bunched on top of her head and rubbed circles on her back.

When Mary had appeared to finish emptying the meagre contents of her stomach, she slowly sat up, taking deep breaths as she did so. Maud silently handed her a glass filled with water, from the tray left on the bed that was tilting at a precarious angle from Mary’s quick dash to the bathroom.

Mary took the glass gratefully, sipping the cool water cautiously. She sat with her back against the wall, the glass cradled between her hands, refusing to look up at the woman in the room with her. Eventually the silence broke her will and she reluctantly looked up at Maud through her dark lashes. Judging by her expression, Mary could make a pretty good guess at the next words that were going to come of Maud’s mouth. She was close.

“I’ll go get the doctor.”

“No.”

“How long have you been sick.”

“This is the first instance this morning.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“I’m fine, Maud.”

“No, you’re not. Does the King know?”

“Maud…”

“Of course, he doesn’t. You must…”

“MAUD. I. Am. Fine. The King does not need to know any of this, I am quite simply exhausted from the tour, I will be fine when I can rest in three days' time. Now I must get ready.”

Mary swallowed forcefully and closed her eyes, thinking back on the conversation as the car continued to bump along the road towards Downton. She rubbed soothing circles on her stomach and took deep breaths hoping to calm the sudden wave of nausea. She couldn’t help but replay Maud’s words over and over in her head, fearful that maybe there was something really wrong.

“We’re approaching the village now, sir.”

“Very good.”

The rumbling of her husband’s deep timbre snapped her back to the present, reminded her of where she was. If George noticed her bewildered expression, he made no mention of it. 

“Come, my dear. Smile for the crowds.”

Mary nodded with a tight-lipped smile, turning her head to the crowds of people cheering by the side of the road. Smile and wave. Duty first. As always.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday 28th April 1927 9:00am

“Well the day has dawned, and the weather proves _conclusively_ that God is a monarchist.”

“Who could doubt it, my lady.”

She wasn’t wrong. This type of beautiful weather after such as storm was enough to convince anyone of divine influence. The gold shine set a glorious backdrop to the light blue of the early morning sky. The abbey’s inhabitants formed three lines diagonally from the entrance, Violet Crawley was, of course, the first to stake her place.

“Here they come now.”

Cora’s ever astute observation techniques were the first to verbally acknowledge the two cars already pulling up to the house, the first stopping in line with the front doors and the second pulling up behind it. The family took this brief interval of the footmen approaching the cars to share fleeting glances of excitement, the Downton staff, with the exception of Moseley, remained stoic.

At last the moment had arrived. A beam of light may have well shone down on the man exiting the first car, and on the woman following him.

“Your Majesties. Welcome to Downton Abbey.”

The two monarchs smiled gracefully at theirs hosts, the King tilting his hat towards the Countess in greeting and nodding towards her husband.

“We’re glad to be here, Lady Grantham. Grantham.”

“You remember Lord Grantham’s mother.”

This signalled the splitting of the two couples, the King and Cora, and the Queen with Robert, the latter pair falling several steps behind. Cora led the way, introducing each member of her family by turn.

“This is kind of you, Lord Grantham.”

Ever the gracious guest, Mary expressed her thanks for the Grantham’s hospitality, even though she knew they’d actually had little choice in the matter. In all honesty, she was merely grateful to be out of the car, the fresh air doing wonders for her senses.

“Not at all, it is a great honour. I’m sure you know, but Princess Mary and Lord Lascelles will be joining us for luncheon and the parade.”

That Mary had not known. She turned to Lord Grantham in surprise

“They’re both coming?”

“As far as we’re aware.”

 _What a relief_ , Mary thought, perhaps there was hope for her daughter’s marriage. It took her but a brief second to realise she’d spoken her initial though out loud. She quickly turned to Lord Grantham fearful she’d revealed too much of their dilemma. “Please forget I said that” she pleaded.

“Said what, ma’am.”

Mary smiled, touching his arm in thanks, she appreciated the man’s obviously kind nature. She afforded the house’s staff a gentile smile, watching as they each bowed their head or curtsied. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Maud greet Old Lady Grantham. As no claws or teeth were borne and neither was anyone physically injured nor lying on the ground bleeding, Mary continued towards the house in cheerful conversation with her host. At least she would be afforded a couple hours of rest before luncheon.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday 28th April 1927 12:30 pm

“I simply don’t understand why you cannot tell me what is wrong!”

“George will you please keep your voice down!” She hissed.

“Mary please!”

“And what could possibly have led you to believe anything is wrong?”

“Lady Bagshaw told me you were ill this morning…”

“Maud told you?! Oh of course she did.”

“She didn’t need to, you’re my wife I know when you’re not yourself! Maud knows you too, she was concerned!”

“But not concerned enough to ask me about it? Either of you?! No, just enough to converse about me when my back is turned.”

George threw his hands up in defeat. In the hour they’d been arguing, him pacing in front of the fireplace, her sat at her vanity, staunchly refusing to turn her face to him; they’d progressed no further in resolving the issue at hand. Matters may improve if his wife decided to look at him, not keeping her gaze fixed on whatever her hands were fiddling with in order to make herself look busy. When he really stopped to look at her, he could see how drawn she was. Her face appeared thinner, certainly paler; and her movements were sluggish, as if someone had drained all the energy from her. It broke him to see her like this, especially when he didn’t know how to help her.

Finally, Mary took notice of the fact he’d stopped pacing and lifted her eyes to meet his in the mirror. She saw nothing but concern in his face, perhaps a little hurt from her harshness, but most of all she saw tenderness. After all these years he still looked at her like that. She had no control over the tears that blurred her vision, everything she’d kept bottled up over the tour came flooding to the surface. She closed her eyes in attempt to stem the tears that were flowing, but to little avail. She didn’t hear her husband approach until she felt him next to her, kneeling by her feet. His hand reached up to caress her cheek, his thumb gently wiping the moisture from under her eyes.

Mary let out a shuddering breath, desperately trying to keep her sobs at bay. But when she felt his hand on her face, she could not help but lean into it, her tears now flowing faster and heavier. The King leapt up from his place on the floor, to gather his wife in his arms, her face pressed into the collar of his shirt, bunching the material of his jacket in her fists. He held her and rocked her gently whilst she cried. Cried in exhaustion and relief. When her sobs had lessened, George lifted her face from where it was tucked in the crook of his neck, his fingers gently guiding her chin upwards. Stormy grey met pale blue. He waited only a second before he crushed his lips to hers. It was salty from her tears, but her lips tasted exactly the same as they always had. His grip on her waist tightened as her hands cupped his face, it was the closeness they both craved.

Parting for air, he smoothed the wayward curls from her eyes, and pressed his lips to her forehead. He heard her sigh and felt her relax his in arms.

“My darling,” he whispered. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me how I can help.”

Mary shook her head slightly. “I don’t know, George. I don’t know what’s wrong. This tour has drained me. I would put it down to getting older, but it feels much more than that. I feel weaker. I feel faint, nauseous, exhausted, and I cannot think why. I expected a little tiredness from the tour, but not like this.”

George listened, his fear and concern growing for his wife. He had a thousand thoughts swirling around his head at once. What if she really was ill? Very seriously ill? His Mary always seemed so formidable, so steadfast. He’d never even contemplated facing anything without her. This thought had him clutching her to him tighter.

Mary sensed his distress, mostly from his tightening grip that was now starting to feel like it could bruise. She soothed the frown from his brow, smoothing her fingers over his face. She kissed him gently, a little reminder for him that she was still there, with him.

“My love, please let me call the doctor. I cannot stand not knowing what has you so ill.”

Mary shook her head at him fondly, carding her finger through his hair. “George…”

“May, your health is something I cannot ignore. I will not stand idly by whilst you suffer.”

Mary sighed. “Very well, when we are back in London, I will have a consultation with our doctor.”

“But..”

“Not until we’re back in London. I will not cause disruption to the tour, not when it’s nearly over. I can wait a few more days.”

George huffed, far from pleased with the arrangement, but knowing it was the best he’d get, he begrudgingly agreed. They sat there for as long as they were able. But 1 o’clock came and they were expected downstairs for luncheon.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday 28th April 1:15 pm

Well she might as well admit, Downton was not quite what she had expected.

The staff, on the whole seemed friendlier than she’d imagined. Lucy wasn’t quite sure why she’d imagined them that way in the first place. Perhaps it was her mother’s vision of hostility awaiting her here, but Lucy had honestly never met nicer people.

Mrs Carson was far nicer than their housekeeper at Brompton, though no less stern. She seemed to have a motherly compassion about her, perhaps as she had acted as a mother for all the housemaids here, moving away from home so young. Her husband, the elder butler, seemed quite grumpy, but anyone could see how devoted he was to his wife and their staff. The familial bond was even plainer between the cook and her assistant, Mrs Patmore and, Daisy? Was it?

It was an atmosphere of people who had been together for so long, they had become a family. Even their snide comments against each other were laced with humour.

Lucy sat back and watched with amusement at the not-so-silent battle that was waging between the two sets of staff. Though she had to say, the Royal servants had more than met their match with this lot. She’d never liked them, always thought the lot of them to be too snobby and stuck-up for their own good. You would have thought they were royalty themselves given the way they behaved towards others.

Though she had actually overheard conversation amongst the staff about missing items from various state rooms in the house. They appeared not to think much of it, except Mrs Bates, who seemed to be quite suspicious, particularly of Miss Lawton. Even Lucy admitted she thought it strange that every house they’d been to so far there had been mentions of missing items. Even so, it was not really her concern, nor was it her problem to deal with. She was content to keep out of the way and play nicely with the other staff.

Though there was one face in particular Lucy’s mind kept drifting back to. The kind, young, gentlemen that had directed her to the servant’s hall. For some reason she couldn’t get him out of her head. She wondered what his position here was, surely only the staff wandered that courtyard?

Lucy shook her head, riding herself of those thoughts. There was no time for it now. They were only here for one night, and there was certainly plenty to be done.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday 28th April 2:45 PM

Luncheon seemed to be progressing quite smoothly, Isobel thought. The conversation, whilst not particularly invigorating to Isobel, was cheerful, nonetheless.

She supposed the jolly atmosphere was down to the two main sources of tension being sat as far away from each other as was possible at this table. Or at least far enough away that Violet wasn’t able to badger Lady Bagshaw lest she shouted across the table.

Even Violet wasn’t that desperate for answers as to shame herself in front of royalty.

She was pleased to see that Tom seemed to be engaging in conversation with Lady Bagshaw instead, and they seemed to be getting on quite well. She did overhear Maud praising Tom’s astute eye, for whatever reason she couldn’t quite hear, but it was promising.

Thankfully, Isobel was sat next to her husband, so she had plenty in the way of chatter. Though she was enjoying herself much more people watching around the table, thinking herself the female Sherlock Holmes. In her deductions of each member around the table, her attention was drawn more than once to the Queen. She had never proclaimed to spending much time around royalty, or the highest ranking of the English upper-class in general, nor had she wanted to. But as she watched Queen Mary, she noticed her plate hadn’t really diminished in its portion size from its first serving. She kept up the appearance of eating, but if Isobel looked closely enough, she could see the food had just been moved around the plate, only small bites making it to her mouth.

Playing with one’s food wasn’t particularly polite in any social circle, so Isobel doubted this to be a regular habit. From this she concluded that there had to be something wrong. Isobel focused on her features instead, noting paleness around the nose and shadows under her eyes, but an overall healthy complexion otherwise.

She supposed it was just the nurse in her overanalysing as usual. Dickie had teased her about it more than once. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that the Queen’s displayed ‘symptoms’ were in line with those of…. No, it simply wasn’t possible.

Isobel mentally shook herself, telling her mind there was no way it could be right. But she couldn’t shake the nagging in the back of her mind that was screaming the answer.

“Right, we should get moving!”

The King’s voice thundered through the room, above the din of the conversation. His command was answered with a murmuring of agreement, and a clattering a cutlery and they all stood to exit the dining room. Isobel and Dickie stood dutifully by their place until the King had passed them with Cora before they made their way out.

Isobel answered Dickie’s comment about the luncheon with a distracted smile, still deep in thought with her musings. When she didn’t hear him speak again, she turned to face him, only to find him looking at her with an infuriatingly knowing twinkle in his eye.

“What?” Isobel demanded.

He answered with a knowing smile, “I know that look my dear, you’ve caught the scent of a mystery.”

Isobel huffed, knowing there was no point in denying anything. She simply rolled her eyes and continued marching up the stairs to their room.

“Won’t you clue me in this time? Or are you going to make me solve it for myself?”

Isobel let out an amused chuckle at that. She knew he was teasing, but she didn’t doubt he was genuinely interested in what she was thinking. They were equals in intellect, and thus he was a worthy Watson to her Holmes. Though if Violet ever heard her comparison, she’d insist that she herself was Sherlock, and Isobel Dr Watson. Dickie would instead be likened to Mary, occasionally tagging along behind the duo. Isobel giggled at the image conjured in her head of Dickie in a dress, full Victorian style. Her amusement received an odd look from her husband. She’d have to tell him about _that_ one later. Instead, in the privacy of her room, she told him about her theory.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday 28th April 3:00 pm

The thundering of hooves could quite likely be heard for miles, as could the entourage of the brass band. Of course, anyone within that radius of miles, was today lining the streets of Downton village, waving their union jack flags in good patriotic spirit, straining to get a look at the King on his horse.

The thick throng of people made it easy for the two gentlemen to move relatively undetected. And detection was the last thing both Atkinson and Chetwood wanted today. With a brief nod to his partner, Atkinson carried on towards the main field, where the parade would congregate, leaving Chetwood to wait outside the Grantham arms for Mr Branson, as arranged. Out of the corner of his eye, Charles saw John moving as if to greet somebody, he assumed Branson.

This caused him to increase his pace, it wouldn’t be long before the Major reached the courtyard the King was waiting in. He needed to get to the field before the news travelled through that the King had been shot.

Increasing his fast walk to a jog, Atkinson soon reached the end point. No one paid any mind to him, most probably assuming he was anxious to get a good place to see the King. All their blind devotion. It made him sick. Eventually he managed to gently push his way through the crowd to a decent spot. Here, he had a perfectly clear view of the dais and of the figures sat on it. He could easily make out the forms of the Queen and the Princess royal. The other figures were of no concern to him and he cared very little about who they actually were.

He waited patiently for the confusion and panic caused by the absence of the King’s horse; it wouldn’t be long he was sure. News of the King’s demise would spread like wildfire.

At last the parade made its way through the entrance of the field. Rows of horses and cannons lined up in three segments. With a clear gap left around the edge, obviously the path left for the King.

 _Too bad he won’t be using it,_ thought Atkinson. He couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of the despair, and fear.

So caught up was he in his sadist thoughts that he barely paid attention to everyone rising from their seats around him. What he saw when he lifted his head made him freeze.

The King was alive.

Chetwood must have been caught. He’d failed.

His knuckles clenched white with anger, his teeth grinding together at the roar of the crowd. He had a choice to make, and he had to make it fast.

If he shot the King, another would take his place. There were five heirs to the British throne, none looked to be dropping dead anytime soon, like their dear brother Johnny.

But he had to hurt the King. A statement had to be made.

The noise of the crowd became muffled around him as he pushed his way forward, reaching into his jacket for his service revolver. Cries of dismay came from the villagers he pushed aside, the commotion catching the attention of the King.

Time seemed to slow as Atkinson locked eyes with the King. Screams were heard as he took aim with the pistol. By now the occupants of the dais and the guards could see what was happening, the aristocrats were rising from their seats. He had but a few seconds before they leapt into action. The pounding in his ears was deafening. He was determined to see it through.

BANG.

Atkinson felt himself being wrestled to the floor by the King’s detectives. Another grabbed his revolver from his hand. The screaming was clear as day to him now, he let the panicked atmosphere wash over his senses as the crowd dispersed from around him.

He lifted his head just in time to watch the Queen fall to the floor, others rushing to her side. 

He smiled in triumph and satisfaction.

He'd succeeded.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dunnnn
> 
> Please don't hate me :)
> 
> Also the mention of 'Johnny' is a reference to the Windsor's sixth child and youngest son, Prince John, who died in 1919 at the age of nearly 14. He suffered with epilepsy during his life, and died in the aftermath of one of his attacks.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: shooting victim and mentions of miscarriage

Thursday 28th April 1927 3:10 pm

There are those who say that death may be the greatest of all human blessings.

Others believe they are wise to fear it. But wisdom is to think we know, and those who fear it claim they quite well know it to be one the greatest evils to exist. And yet, we can never know death. For death cannot be whilst we live, and when death comes, we no longer live to acknowledge it. So, one must assume it is mere ignorance of thought that they claim to know of a situation that may well be the greatest good that can happen to them.

Of course, the philosophy only applies to one’s own death. Death is the absence of life. As we can never feel the absence of our own life, we can never know our own death. It is only ever the death of others we feel.

\------

George never feared his own death. He never particularly looked forward to it, nor wished it to happen, but he wasn’t scared of it. He felt content enough in his life to believe he’d lived it well, and death wouldn’t take him too soon. Of course, he had never applied that thought to his beloved wife.

Mary’s life, to him, was far too precious to him to ever be taken from his own. He had, quite selfishly perhaps, always hoped his life would end before hers, so that he’d never have to know a moment without her. To that end he had refused to even acknowledge the possibility of it ever happening.

When the shot rang out, across the field and over the noise of the crowd, George flinched, expecting to feel the pain blooming across his body at any time. His confusion when it did not happen, made him wonder if it was shock, or if death truly was painless. The absence of pain and his unwavering consciousness forced him to look down and examine his physique. Nothing. No bullet holes to name.

His curiousness quite soon transformed into horror, as he realised, he himself was not the intended target. Or if he had been, he was not the one chosen.

Further screams alerted him to the fact that someone had indeed been harmed in his stead.

Mary. Was his only thought.

The name, applicable to either his daughter or his wife - (it didn’t matter which for there had only been one shot) rang through his mind in shouts and echoes. If his school of thought had been clear, he may have cast a prayer to whomever was listening in hope that neither had been harmed. At present, however, his only recourse was to attain answers. In such, he yanked his horse’s reigns, all too forcefully, to turn the beast to face the dais.

His heart stopped dead.

For there, lying crumpled on the ground, was his darling May. He paid little heed to the multitude of faces surrounding her as he rapidly dismounted his horse. He wasn’t even aware of his feet moving, his vision narrowed down only to his wife, whom he collapsed on his knees next to, oblivious to those who had moved out of the way.

The bullet seemed to have penetrated her stomach, or at least that was the area Lady Merton appeared to be applying pressure to with her hand on top of the Queen’s own. He was faintly aware of her voice shouting orders and simultaneously demanding Mary stay awake, advice of which she was in serious danger of not heeding. He took note of his wife’s pale and sickly palate, her head cradled in their daughter’s lap, whom herself had tears streaking her face, her own hands stained with the blood she had obviously tried to stem. A small pool of blood was forming at the corner of her mother’s mouth, her eyes fluttering as she battled sleep. Her hat had been removed, likely by his daughter, and several iron-blonde curls had come loose.

George grabbed his wife’s hand which was now cold and clammy, having been removed from her glove by order of Lady Merton who was using them both to apply the pressure due to lack of cloth or bandage. The sound of sirens could be heard from the high-street of the village. The doctor had obviously been informed and the ambulance was on the way; the police car only seconds behind to arrest the man responsible.

The ambulance at last arrived and the stretcher was hurried removed from the back and placed alongside the Queen. George and Mary were hastily pushed aside for the moment, as Lady Merton and two hospital attendees gently lifted Mary onto the stretcher, laying a blanket over her in the process. The stretcher was then lifted and swiftly taken to the vehicle, the two attendees at either end, the baroness alongside it, still pressurising the wound.

“Hurry, Sir, if you wish to ride alongside her.”

George neither heard nor cared who gave the order, but leapt into action, sprinting towards the car, abandoning his hat as he went. The stretcher was safely placed in, the four occupants sliding in next to it as the rear vehicle doors were slammed and the ambulance lurched forward, sirens blaring. A glance out of the rear window, affording the King a glimpse of his tearful daughter being consoled and supported by Lady Bagshaw and Lady Grantham.

Turning to Mary, he saw her eyes were nearly closed and her breathing becoming audibly ragged and laboured.

“May,” he pleaded. “May, you must stay awake. Come on, my love, just listen to my voice.”

Mary weakly lifted her free hand in response, which George grasped firmly, pressing his lips to the back.

“George,” Mary whispered.

“I’m here, darling. I’m here,” he soothed.

A screeching of tyres, and a slight jolt forewarned the King to the fact the ambulance had stopped. No sooner had he realised, were the doors flung open and the stretcher carrying his wife was removed from the vehicle. George was thankful that the driver had parked as close as he possibly could to the entrance, no doubt primarily to ensure saved time, but it also afforded his wife a little more privacy, as she was not in the crowds gaze for long.

The King rushed in behind his wife, going as far into the hospital as he was allowed.

A thick Scottish brogue resounded through the air, George raised his head to see a man in a white coat, clearly the doctor, march towards his patient, barking orders as he went.

“Prep her for surgery, administer primary saturation of nitrous oxide at 95% and alternate with secondary saturation of oxygen. There’s likely a lot of internal bleeding that needs to be attended to immediately. Your Majesty, I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait out here, you cannot accompany her in.”

The King nodded, turning to his wife one last time, bestowed a firm kiss on her lips to which she weakly responded with pressure of her own.

“I love you,” George whispered when they parted, but her reply, if there was one, he didn’t hear, as his wife was moved quickly into another room and the doors to the operating theatre closed behind her. George was left standing helplessly in the corridor, staring after her, feeling his heart break all over again.

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Thursday 28th April 1927 9:15pm

Six hours.

It had been six hours since Mary and George had arrived at Downton Hospital.

Six hours since Mary had been rushed into surgery.

Six hours since George had told his wife he loved her, possibly for the last time.

Six hours, and still no word.

George was going mad. Nay, insane, from worry. He had paced from one end of the hospital corridor to the other, like a man deranged for the best part of 5 and a half hours. But not one of his companions made a move to stop him, nor did they seem to want to, wrapped in their own thoughts and grief.

A second car had arrived mere moments from his own arrival, containing his daughter, along with Maud and the Countess.

Abandoning, and rightfully so, all thought of decorum and protocol, Mary raced towards her father and threw her arms around him, sobbing into his broad chest. The King wasted no time in wrapping his own arms around his only daughter and held her tight, tears of his own falling freely down his cheeks. When she had calmed somewhat, he had led her to a seat before she collapsed on the floor. From there the pacing had begun.

Even if he stopped pacing, there was not a seat for him to occupy. Maud sat next to Mary, stroking the young woman’s head that was resting on her shoulder. George thought he should feel glad that she was being comforted by the next closest thing she had to a mother. But he couldn’t help the thought that it should be her real mother comforting her. But if that were the case, and she was here, Mary wouldn’t need comforting. He supposed he should just stick to feeling glad.

The next two chairs were occupied by Lady Grantham and Lady Merton, respectively. The Baroness’ hands were now absent of any trace of his wife’s blood, having washed them thoroughly upon handover. The Countess had come in support of his daughter also, and had also informed him that her husband, as Lord Lieutenant, would take care of everything.

There was nothing left to do but wait. And how torturous it was.

Finally, footsteps could be heard. And they weren’t his own as he had stopped pacing and was instead staring mindlessly into the air. Each of the room’s occupants raised their head to see Dr Richard Clarkson entering the room. He looked tired, but other than that his expression was unreadable. The four women leapt to their feet as George stood stiffly, prepared to hear the worst. Dr Clarkson nodded courteously towards each of the ladies, before directing his attention to the King, who was becoming increasingly impatient.

“Well?!” he pressed, urgently.

Dr Clarkson let a small smile grace his lips. “She’ll be okay. The surgery went smoothly with no complications and I expect her to make a full recovery, though it may be a long and slow one.”

Cries of joy erupted from the women, whilst the King breathed a huge exhale of relief, lifting his eyes to the ceiling to clear his vision of the tears blurring it.

“Oh, thank god!” Maud exclaimed Mary crushed to her side in a hug, tears of joy leaking from their eyes. Isobel and Cora each swiped tears of their own from their cheeks at the cathartic news.

The joy was short lived and once again gave way to anxiety when the doctor cleared his throat, signally there was more news to give.

“Well, what’s wrong?!” George demanded, his fear creeping back in.

Richard sighed, unsure of how the news would be received. “Post-surgery we conduct a full body exam to ensure the overall health of the patient. Upon examining the Queen, we discovered something most … er … irregular.”

“Irregular? What the hell do you mean man?” The King was becoming increasingly agitated from the lack of answer.

Richard sighed again. “What I mean is we weren’t expecting these results. Upon examining the Queen, we discovered that she is in fact with child.”

Gasps echoed around the room, gloved and un-gloved hands flying up to cover gaping mouths. The King froze, the blood all but draining from his face. It took several moments before he felt as if he were able to breathe again, and several more for him to start forming words.

“Well that explains it,” Maud muttered quietly, unheard by anyone else.

Dr Clarkson took note of all the faces in the room. Mostly he read shock, disbelief, and a fair amount of confusion. One reaction caught his attention, however.

“You don’t seem surprised,” he stated, looking at the former nurse.

Isobel shook her head. “I had suspicions, nothing concrete to prove it.”

“She…but how can…but how?” was all the King finally managed.

“It’s not uncommon for women to have late surges of fertility, particularly as they reach a certain age, roughly around the age the Queen is now, though of course it varies from woman to woman.” At this he shared a knowing look with Cora, who slowly nodded her understanding.

“Wait…” Mary interrupted. “You said is. Not was. You mean she is still with child; she didn’t lose the baby?”

All eyes once again turned to the doctor.

“Er no,” he confirmed. “She has not lost the child. However, as I estimate her to be only four weeks along, give or take, it really is too early to discern the affect the trauma will have on the child. The bullet penetrated the upper portion of her stomach, it missed her womb entirely. However, I won’t be able to detect a heartbeat until the 18th to the 20th week of her pregnancy. The child’s movements should be felt by her a little before then at around the 16th week, so she’ll know before I do.”

“But will she be alright? Will they be alright?” The King questioned. He was positively terrified, both for his wife and his unborn child.

“I fully expect the Queen to be fine. The child I cannot say for definite or with absolute surety, but outlook is that the child will hopefully be unaffected.”

“Has my wife been told?”

“She was awake briefly after her surgery, and she seemed lucid enough to have grasped the information. She’s resting now, but I suspect will be waking shortly.”

“May I see her?” George pleaded.

The doctor nodded his assent. “I must warn you she will tire easily, so it is best she sleeps as much as possible. So, I’ll allow one visitor at a time. You may stay will her as long as you don’t disturb her rest.”

George nodded. “Of course.”

“If you’ll follow me.”

Mary walked forward and placed a kiss on her father’s whiskery cheek. “Give that to Mama for me, please Papa?”

George nodded, placing a kiss to his daughter’s crown, before following the good doctor from the room.

The corridor seemed endless in length, but finally they arrived outside a room containing a single bed with a single occupant. Two detectives stood on either side of the door and one was placed outside of the window. Of course, the Queen couldn’t be placed in a shared dorm room, not in normal circumstances nor when the threats to her safety were very real.

George turned to the doctor, extending his hand towards the man. Dr Clarkson hid his surprise, firmly grasping the monarch’s hand.

“Thank you, doctor. For saving my wife’s life.”

Richard cleared his throat. “Of course, sir. Just doing my job.”

And with that, George quietly opened the door to the room and slipped inside.

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Thursday 28th April 1927 9:30 pm

There were very few moments that George ever thought of his wife as small. None that he could recall at this very moment, but he was sure he had. Though shy, Mary was a formidable presence, commanding and domineering of attention, even without speaking. She was striking. Her physicality also was not exactly tiny. Not fat, she certainly wasn’t that, but her height nearly matched George’s. In fact, some of her larger hats made her appear to tower over him.

But looking at her, lying still on the bed, he couldn’t help but think that she looked small. She was pale. Her hair was loose around her, forming a halo on her pillow. The pins that had held it in place were laid on the bedside table, obviously for her own comfort of not waking with a sore scalp. Her face was tilted away from him, towards the window. The only sign she was alive was the minute but steady rise and fall of her chest.

The sight made George want to weep, tears were tracking freely down his face and he pulled up a chair next to her bed.

He reached for her hand, clutching it between his own, pressing kiss after kiss to her knuckles.

A fluttering of her eyelids told him that he had woken her, the rise and fall of her chest becoming larger as she rose into wakefulness.

Turning her head towards her raised hand, it took a moment before she was awake enough to recognise the man next to her.

“George,” she breathed.

“My darling,” George wept. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

Mary traced her fingertips over his brow. “I’m here,” she soothed. “I’m okay.”

George leaned forward to kiss his wife, their tears mingling on her cheeks, which George then proceeded to kiss away.

“My love, did they tell you…” she trailed off, placing the hand that was not holding his over her abdomen, where their child rested.

George broke out into a smile, chuckling in elation, his hand reaching to rest next to hers. “They did. Oh sweetheart, I’m so happy.”

Mary smiled back just as brightly, before her expression faded into a pensive look.

George noticed his wife’s expression with concern. “May, what is it?”

Mary let out a shaky breath. “I’m scared George,” she admitted.

“Why darling?”

“We’ve been here before, George. I can’t lose another child…I…”

At this Mary broke down into tears and George’s heart broke watching her. He cradled her in his arms as best he could without jostling her about, whispering words of comfort in her ear.

“Oh darling, I can’t…” George sighed. “I can’t promise we won’t. I can’t promise that it won’t be like Johnny, or…or like the child we lost when he was four. But I can promise that I will do everything in my power to keep you and this child safe and healthy.”

Mary nodded weakly and burrowed her face further into the crook of her husband’s arm, still crying.

George pressed his face into his wife’s hair, inhaling her scent, as he continued to rock her gently. Husband and Wife stayed that way until exhaustion overcame them and they both and they fell asleep curled around each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a little reading about the type of surgery and anaesthesia available in 1927, so I am by no means an expert, but what I could grasp I attempted to translate into the story. It may very well, and very likely, be entirely wrong. Also, I assumed post-war they would know how to operate on a gunshot wound. Particularly since there were scenes in the first season of a cataract surgery for Mrs Patmore, which seemed quite advanced, so I assumed it was not out of the realm of possibility. Again, could be wrong. 
> 
> For the paragraphs at the top, I expanded on the initial quotations of philosophers Socrates and Epicurus. The manipulation and explanation of them is mine, but the words themselves are not. 
> 
> Also, for those who aren’t aware, there were reports of Queen Mary being pregnant in 1910, her child supposedly due in march. As there was obviously no seventh chid, it is assumed that she did in fact have a miscarriage. I’ve attached a link to the newspaper clipping and the blog I found it on. I know nothing of it’s validity but have used it as fact for the purpose of my storyline.  
> https://collarsncrowns.tumblr.com/post/626209482941300736/newspaper-clippings-regarding-hm-queen-marys


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written two chapters so there'll be another uploaded tomorrow to make up for the long wait!  
> This is more of a filler chapter than anything else but I hope you enjoy it all the same!

Friday 29th April 2:00 am

The police station was not a place one wanted to be at night, even for the ones guarding it. 

A solitary officer would patrol the corridor between the cells every 30 minutes or so, at the same slow pace every single time. Their boots had an unmistakable clunk to them so their arrival was easily heard and distinguished. 

Officer Phillips was on shift tonight and he leisurely strolled the length of the hall to the only two occupied cells in the station that night. 

He passed Atkinson first, saw his mess of black hair sprawled on the uncomfortable standard issue pillow the prisoners were given along with a coarse, and rather thin blanket. 

Satisfied he was still there, Phillips continued on his merry way to the further cell. What he saw made his heart drop. 

He dropped the cup he was holding, containing scalding tea, not waiting to hear it shatter on the ground as he sprinted back to his colleague on the front desk. 

There was no mistaking the open cell door, a hairpin sticking out from its lock.

"The Major was gone.

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Friday 29th April 1927 6:05 am

The entire house was in upheaval. There wasn’t a single person who wasn’t in a rush to complete a task, or hunt for a suddenly lost item, or even hurrying to force down their breakfast. In fact, most hadn’t even had breakfast there was so much to do.

Yesterday it had fallen to the house staff who had been present at the parade, to inform those of the royal household of the tragedy. Shock had been the primary response, as well as tears shed mostly by the younger staff. A few meagre stammering of sentences that even Mr Wilson and Mrs Webb were not able to properly manage. But in this instance, the servants of Downton Abbey could not take pleasure in their loss for words, in fact they felt most sympathetic towards them, in the obvious display of respect, if not genuine care for their employers. In fact, there were tears shed on both sides, for Queen Mary was a most beloved and respected woman.

Hours were spent in silent agony. Most busied themselves in quiet tasks to pass the time, others sat in groups talking in hushed voices. The senior staff of both households waited in Mrs Carson’s parlour, lady’s maids and valets included, conversing over serval pots of tea well into the evening.

There were no more arguments. Dinner had been laid out buffet-style in the hall and people were picking at it as they saw fit. There was no quarrel over who would eat where, nor who had seniority. A truce had been drawn, unspoken yet unanimously understood.

Finally, Lord Grantham had hurried downstairs, having received a phone call from Lady Grantham, to tell them the Queen had pulled through. The joy was instantaneous and contagious. No single face did not have a smile on it, hugs and kisses on cheeks were widely dished out.

The celebrations only lasted an hour or so, before all staff, wiped out from the day’s exertions, drifted away one by one up to bed where they each collapsed in exhaustion.

6:00 am saw all members of staff risen and prepared for the day. Except they weren’t prepared for what was to come.

At around a quarter past six the phone in the Butler’s pantry, rang in its shrill tones, startling the staff member close by.

It was Sir Harry Barnston, ringing to inform Mr Wilson that the King and Queen’s four sons would be arriving at Downton that afternoon; not before stopping at the hospital to visit their Mama. Rooms were to be made up for each son, and a fifth for Prince Albert’s wife, Elizabeth. Four valets and a single lady’s maid would be accompanying them, so rooms were to be rearranged to fit them with extra beds brought down from the attic. Preparations began before the family was even awake; Lord and Lady Grantham were informed as soon as they appeared for breakfast.

“Oh goodness,” sighed Cora, as she sat down. Presently there was only herself, her husband, Lord Merton, and Lady Bagshaw. The rest had not yet emerged from their bedrooms. The King and Isobel had both stayed at the hospital; George refusing to leave his wife’s side, Isobel as the Queen’s nurse. They had agreed to keep the Queen’s pregnancy quiet for now, so only those present when the doctor broke the news to the King were aware.

“I suppose there’s lots to be done,” sympathised Robert. “Barrow, tell the staff we’ll take sandwiches in the small library, and we’ll serve ourselves.”

Barrow opened his mouth to tell him that with two households worth of staff they could be served as normal, but he saw no reason in arguing.

“Very good, Milord.”

Following the Butler’s prompt departure, there was a pensive silence. Maud had said very little since arriving for breakfast, her thoughts otherwise occupied with the impending arrival of the Monarch’s offspring. Namely the eldest one.

David had a famously frosty relationship with his parents. Well. With his father at least. In truth, he adored his mother and always had, but her loyalty to his father meant she rarely contradicted him, in his presence anyway, so she wasn’t a particularly useful ally to have at hand. But he never said a word against Mary, to him, she was a saint. Maud only worried he’d argue with the King and upset her. It really would do well for her to be any more distressed in her precarious state than she already was.

The other three sons wouldn’t cause any issue. Bertie was sweet; and besotted with his wife and new daughter to boot. The little Elizabeth was a delightful child, George and Mary absolutely doted on her. Their two younger sons, George and Henry, were happy with their military careers, currently (and fortunately) on leave at present.

Perhaps George hadn’t been as harsh with them as with David, Maud mused. He was the heir after all, and the previous Princes of Wales hadn’t set a promising precedent. Mary had often said she thought George was too hard on the poor boy.

“Will you be going down to the hospital this morning, Lady Bagshaw?” Cora asked.

Maud nodded. “Yes, I shall. I’m afraid I have to dash off straight after this, Lady Merton has been attending to the Queen all night, and she’ll need to rest.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about Isobel,” Lord Merton chuckled. “It’d take wild horses to pull my wife away from her duty. There was nothing she loved more than being a nurse, and a fine one she was too.”

“Did she work at the hospital?” Maud asked, curious to know more about this woman who was caring for her friend. She and Maud had only spoken briefly at tea the day before. She knew she was a close friend of Violet’s, but she seemed like a fine woman.

“She is the Almoner of the hospital, but I believe she worked as the head nurse until recently as well from the time she arrived at Downton in 1912,” it was Robert that answered Maud’s question.

“She was a nurse during the Boer War and the Great War,” Cora added. “She was in France on the frontline for a while.”

“Golly,” Maud said. “She sounds almost superhuman.”

Lord Merton laughed, “You’d certainly think it.”

“I’m going for a walk, there’s something Tom needs me to see at the agent’s office.”

“Oh, I’ll join you if you don’t mind. I could use a walk.”

Robert nodded his assent, and so the gentlemen left the two women on their own, quite the relief, since they could now talk about the burning secret that had been hovering in the air since they returned from the hospital.

“The King telephoned this morning, the Doctor has forbidden the Queen to travel and so they’ve plans to move her to Harewood, potentially until the child is born.”

“Oh, but Harewood is still a journey, they must stay here! It’d be far safer than moving her all the way to Harewood!”

“That is true, I’ll inform the King, I’m sure they’d prefer it to the coldness of Harewood.”

“Will they tell their sons do you think? About the baby?”

Maud sighed. “I suspect so. If they don’t today, they’ll have to soon.”

Cora tilted her head in question. “Why do you say that?”

“Lady Grantham, what I am about to say must be in the strictest confidence…”

“Of course! And I insist you call me Cora. I do not have the same quarrel with you as my mother-in-law. I do so hope we can be friends.”

Cora’s words made the weight on Maud’s shoulders lighten a little and she managed a small smile. “I would like that, Cora. But in that case, you must call me Maud.”

Cora smiled, and motioned for Maud to continue.

“You see, while the Queen has borne six children, her pregnancies have never been the smoothest. David’s was hard, but we put that down to being her firstborn. Bertie was dreadfully ill at birth but there wasn’t any real danger to the Queen. But her later pregnancies were quite strenuous on her. She was terribly ill, and was on bed rest for months, almost the entirety with Harry.”

Cora’s eyes widened. She hadn’t known that, of course, royal ladies were sheltered anyway from the country during childbearing, so nobody had thought any more of it. She’d never even thought to consider anything being wrong.

Maud continued. “Johnnie was four when we first noticed his illness; it terrified the King and Queen. And of course, when he died, it broke their hearts. They never knew why he had it, but they guessed a complication at birth. Not that it was surprising, they were fearful neither would make it when he was born.”

“I can see why you’re worried about her. I honestly had no idea it had been so terrible!”

Maud nodded. “Yes. Yes, it was terrible. But that wasn’t all of it.”

Cora’s brow furrowed in confusion.

Maud pursed her lips, wondering if she should continue. She decided she could trust Cora, who had thus far kept the Queen’s secret.

“She had a miscarriage, you see.”

“Oh,” said Cora softly, all too familiar with the pain it caused.

“Not many people knew. Only myself, the doctor, Queen Alexandra, and the King. King Edward had just died, and the strain was a little too much to bear. They were devastated.”

Cora nodded in understanding. “And now you’re worried it will happen again.”

“She has just been shot. That’s trauma enough on anyone, never mind an expecting mother. And I just know she will worry constantly; so right now, I don’t believe having her eldest son here will help matters much. I suppose you’re all too aware of his activities, as most are. It causes a lot of friction with the King; her Majesty does get so terribly anxious when they are together. I just don’t want to place anymore strain on her.”

“We’ll just have to do all we can to support her.”

Maud raised her eyebrows, surprised at Cora’s steely determination to help them. Perhaps she had found an ally in all of this after all.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday 29th April 1927 9:15 am

The hospital was quiet. Peaceful, almost. Faint footsteps could be heard now and then from passing staff, and the open window let the sweet chirping of birds fill the room.

Mary laid in the hospital bed, listening to the quiet symphony, her mind wandering in so many directions at once.

George had finally stepped out to get have breakfast for himself, some having been sent down from the Abbey by, Mrs Patmore she believed? Anyway, it didn’t matter, he’d taken almost half an hour to be convinced that she’d been fine out of his line of sight for twenty minutes whilst he ate. It had taken herself, Doctor Clarkson, and Lady Merton to convince him; the latter two practically forcing him out of the room as Mary herself couldn’t get out of her bed to do it herself.

The doctor had examined her again this morning, declaring that she was perfectly stable but that he’d like to keep her under observation for about a week longer, much to her husband’s anxiety and her own chagrin. That meant another week of George tossing and turning in the army issue cot beside her, as there would be absolutely no way of asking him to leave her overnight.

Mary groaned, partly at the thought of her husband being insufferable, partly overcome with a sudden bout of nausea. She quickly leaned over the side of her bed, retching into the bedpan that lay on the floor next to her. So preoccupied was she with her misery, she didn’t hear the door open, revealing Lady Merton carrying her breakfast tray, which was promptly set aside when she saw the situation.

Isobel lifted the bedpan closer to the Queen, wordlessly handing her the glass of water she’d brought for her to rinse her mouth. Mary smiled weakly in thanks, moving to sit up but struggling to do so. Isobel helped lift her into a seated position with a gentle guiding hand.

Mary exhaled shakily through her mouth, rubbing her stomach in hopes to calm the rolling nausea as well as the aching twinge she now hand near the wound from throwing up. Isobel noticed her distress and went over to the tray she’d put down, returning with a steaming cup of something. Mary could smell the aroma before she took it; it smelt like ginger.

“What’s this?” Mary asked, reaching up to take the cup from Isobel’s hands.

“Lemon and ginger, ma’am. It did wonders for me when I was pregnant with my son, especially when I couldn’t keep anything down.”

Mary winced, motioning for Isobel to sit in the chair normally occupied by George. “Is it that obvious?”

Isobel smiled, taking the proffered seat. “Only to a former nurse, and mother.”

Mary sipped the tea, humming quietly in approval. “That is wonderful, thank you.”

“It’s no bother ma’am, I wouldn’t be doing a good job of caring for you if I wasn’t helping in anyway.”

“True, but not many would have been considerate enough to think of it.”

Isobel smiled and looked down at her lap, blushing to the roots of her hair.

The two women sat in comfortable silence, Mary sipping at her tea, Isobel covertly watching her from the corner of her eye. At last, Mary had drained the cup, instantly feeling much better. Isobel took the cup and rose to place it next to the tray. “Do you feel well enough to eat anything? Or do you want to wait a little?”

“Actually, I do feel a little hungry.”

“That’s good. Well, try the toast first, it’d be the best for your stomach after being ill.”

Mary nodded, taking tentative bites from the plate on the tray in front of her. Isobel watched in satisfaction as Mary quickly demolished the toast and started on the rest of the breakfast. She wouldn’t touch the eggs, Isobel noticed. Oh well, there were certain foods that when pregnant even ginger tea couldn’t help with.

“I hear your children are all coming up to Downton today.”

Mary sighed. “They are. I’m afraid it’s a terrible imposition on Lord and Lady Grantham, I do feel awful.”

Isobel’s opinion of the Queen improved further in that moment. Isobel always thought their type just imposed and didn’t give a damn nor a thought in consideration for the people whose noses they were putting out of joint.

“I’m sure they consider it a great honour ma’am.”

Mary smiled gratefully at Isobel’s attempt to sooth her worried thoughts. She couldn’t do much to relieve _all_ of her worries, however. With the impending arrival of her children drawing ever closer, Mary became more and more worried at their reactions to their news.

Isobel noticed the Queen becoming quiet and pensive, her hand clutching protectively over her abdomen. “Are you alright, ma’am?” She enquired cautiously.

“What? Oh, yes fine. Just fine thank you.”

Isobel nodded, not convinced in the slightest. Mary could sense the baroness’ hesitation to let the matter slide, but she was grateful that nevertheless she had decided to let it go for now.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday 29th April 1927 3:25 pm

To say that the arrival of the Royal party at the hospital caused somewhat or a stir, would have to be considered a serious understatement. The cheers could be heard throughout the village, and the junior royal spared a few moments to greet the nearest well-wishes they could reach. They kept the sighting short and sweet, promptly moving into the hospital, the servicemen standing guard at the gate to hold the crowds back.

They were quickly led into the room by Lady Bagshaw, where the King and Queen were waiting. They were greeted to the sight of the Queen sat up in bed, hair loose down her back, looking tired and pale but happy. The King was sat next to her on an uncomfortable looking chair, also sporting a content expression.

“Oh Mama!” Elizabeth cried, rushing over to the woman in the bed, embracing her gently and kissing her cheek. Bertie followed his gregarious wife, embracing his mother. “We were all so worried, Mama. How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright, darling.” Mary said, accepting kisses from her two younger sons. “Sore and tired, but alive.”

David walked slowly over to his mother, bending down to dutifully kiss her cheek. “Hello Mama,” he said softy. Mary smiled reassuringly and squeezed his hand., before he went to clasp his father’s hand like his brothers had, though clearly with more stiffness than they had. It broke her heart that he wasn’t comfortable around his father, and she had tried and failed to help mend the bond between them. She thought it only encouraging that he was here today.

“Did they get the man who did it?” Harry demanded, obviously furious that someone had dared to harm his mother.

It was George who responded, the venom apparent in his tone the even having to acknowledge the existence of the man who had shot his darling May. “He’s currently being held at the police station. He’ll be moved to the prison while he awaits trail, but the detectives are reluctant to move him just yet, as they’re questioning him about a potential partner.”

Harry was aghast. “A partner!? And they haven’t apprehended him?”

"They did," George said angrily. "But apparently the locks are not as sound in the police station as they should be. He's missing. A Major Chetwood they believe he's called, according to Tom Branson anyway. They know exactly who they're looking for, but he seems to be eluding them." 

Elizabeth was furious enough for all of them. She jumped up, shaking her fists. “How dare they?! HOW DARE THEY?!”

“Darling, c-calm yourself. They will f-find him.”

“Bertie these men planned to kill Mama, one of them nearly did! It’s lucky the doctor was able to save her life! I…” She took a deep breath to calm herself, turning to other the woman. “I apologise Mama, I don’t mean to distress you further.”

“You haven’t my dear,” Mary soothed, stroking the back of her daughter-in-law’s hand with her thumb.

“Now, there’s certain matters we need to discuss,” George started. “The doctor has forbidden your mother from travelling so we are unable to move back to London for the time being. As such we ask that each of you take on some of our responsibilities and step in for us at various functions.”

The four sons murmured their agreement which seemed to satisfy the King, though he was under no illusion that they thought they had any choice in the matter.

“Where will you be staying? Surely not here?” George asked his parents.

“No,” answered his father. “We had planned to go to your sister at Harewood, but Lord and Lady Grantham have kindly offered for us to remain at Downton for your mother’s recovery.”

“How long will you be staying, Mama?” Elizabeth asked. “Does the doctor know when you will recover by?”

“I’ll be on bed-rest mostly, getting up only after the stitches are removed. But it’ll be roughly eight months.”

“Eight months!” Cried David, incredulously. “The blasted doctor isn’t doing his job properly if it takes you eight months to recover from a bullet! I’ll have another doctor sent up straight away! One who damn well knows what he’s doing!”

George and Mary looked at each other, silently weighing up the situation.

Elizabeth noticed their secretive look and was immediately concerned. “What is it what’s wrong? There is something wrong isn’t there?! Oh, I just knew something else—”

“Darling hush.” Bertie shushed his wife, waiting instead for his parents to explain.

“You tell them, darling,” George said quietly. Mary sighed, turning to look at her children and their worried faces.

“No David, you’re right, it won’t take me eight months to heal. I’ll be convalescing for a different reason.”

“What other reason?”

Mary glanced at George for encouragement, which he gave, grasping her hand.

“Well it seems the doctor discovered something during my surgery…”

“Oh God, is it serious?” Elizabeth interrupted. Her nerves were going through the roof. ‘Honestly’, George thought. ‘If she doesn’t calm down, she’ll burst a blood vessel’. Which would be a shame because he rather liked Elizabeth.

“Well in a way yes. I’m pregnant.”

Silence. Dead silence.

So silent that you couldn’t even hear people breathing. In fact, Mary wasn’t sure any of them were breathing. They were just stood and sat in their various places, staring back at her as if she’d grown a second head.

“You’re joking,” Henry laughed nervously. “Oh, thank God, you’re joking.” His smile faded at the slight shake of his mother’s head, indicating that she was indeed deadly serious.

“There must be some mistake!” Exclaimed George. “You can’t be pregnant!”

“I assure you I am.”

“That’s wonderful news, Mama!” Elizabeth said, hoping to thaw a little of the tension.

David who had remained remarkably silent through the announcement, suddenly strode out of the room without saying a word.

“David…” Mary tried to stop him, but her eldest son ignored her. The family fell silent again, all of them unsure of anything to say.

Bertie mustered himself and followed his brother. He found David, in the hospital garden, pacing back and forth and muttering angrily to himself.

“I suppose it’d be foolish to ask if you are alright?”

David turned to Bertie, his face like thunder. “I can’t believe this.”

“I mean I don’t believe this was planned.”

“No! Damn you; it isn’t that.”

Bertie was confused now. “Then what?”

“Did you see how happy he looked?” David spat. He picked up his pacing again, and Bertie was forced to follow him. “You’d think he was the best father alive the way he was smiling. Instead, this’ll be another child for him to trample over.”

“That’s hardly fair.”

“It’s the damn truth and you know it! He neglected us all. We could probably count the amount of times he’s said a kind word to any of us on just one hand between us. He has no right to spring that misery on another child.”

“What makes you think he will? He dotes on Lilibet, I think he’s quite mellowed out in age.”

David sneered. “Not when it comes to his own children.”

Bertie sighed, deciding that they weren’t going to get anywhere by arguing. “Well perhaps. But the child will still have Mama.”

David considered this. “Well, thank God for small mercy’s I suppose”, he sighed.

“You know she’ll have been terribly upset that you left.”

“I know, you’re right. We should go back in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in the space of 24 hours? Who even is she?? If you haven't read chapter 8 make sure you do, it was posted only a short while before this one.
> 
> Things start to pick up a little more in this chapter so hopefully things will be a little more interesting!
> 
> As a side note: did you know George V had two tattoos?? He got them when in Japan with his brother Prince Albert in the 1880s; one of a Dragon on one arm and one of a tiger on the other. You can find google images of the dragon design for HRH the Duke of York as he was then. Just thought I'd share this rather interesting information...

Wednesday 25th May 1927 – 2:20 pm

It was a real skill carrying a heavily laden tray up 4 flights of stairs to the gallery, but it was a skill Elsie Carson had perfected. The poor maid had made it rattle so that Mrs Patmore shrieked at her to put it down. She simply refused to let the maid take the tray, ranting and ranting about how the Queen could not be served off of a shaking tray, not seeming to grasp that the tray wouldn’t be shaking when it was set down.

The royal staff had been sent back to London, minus the ladies’ maids and valets who would remain to dress the monarchs. But as both the Queen’s ladies maid’s were indisposed for various reasons she could not be bothered to keep up with, Mrs Carson found herself carrying the Queen’s luncheon tray up to her bedroom.

She rapped lightly on the door with her knuckles, balancing the tray on her raised knee.

“Come in,” The Queen’s soft voice sounded through the door.

Elsie opened the door to find the Queen, not in her bed like she expected, but sat on the chaise lounge by the fire, reading a book. She was dressed in her nightgown and robe, her hair in a plait over her shoulder, and her feet bare. She looked ethereal. Elsie hid her surprise and simply altered her course and placed the tray on the stool next to the Queen, rather than her originally intended destination of the bedside table.

The Queen looked up and smiled at the housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs…?”

“Carson, your Majesty.”

“Mrs Carson. You didn’t need to bring my tray, one of the maids would have sufficed, I’m sure you’re much too busy.”

“Oh, it was no bother at all, ma’am. But I’m afraid Mrs Patmore would not let the maid carry the tray, so you’re stuck with me.”

Mary raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Hm, she made too much noise when she did it, rattling the tray.”

“Oh dear,” Mary laughed. “Well we cannot have that can we?”

“No ma’am,” Elsie smiled, joining in the Queen’s laughter. “Heaven forbid you be served from a rattling tea tray.”

“Oh,” Mary gasped once she had regained control of her laughter, wiping a tear from her eye. “You’ve made my day.”

“Well I imagine there isn’t much of a day to be had stuck in one room,” Elsie sympathised. “Forgive me for asking ma’am but are you sure you should be out of bed.”

“No,” Mary sighed. “I suppose I’m not, but I could not stand sitting in bed all day, so I thought I may as well sit and stare at the room from another angle if I am to be an invalid. But I should be in bed when my husband returns, which actually should be any moment.”

Elsie took the tray, moving it to the bedside, before returning to assist the Queen in standing. The two made it partway to the bed before the Queen stopped, pressing the back of her free hand to her mouth, closing her eyes, and inhaling deeply through her nose.

“Are you alright, ma’am,” Elsie asked in concern.

“Fine just…nauseous…it’ll pass.”

Elsie waited beside the taller woman whilst her illness passed, the Queen’s hand still grasped in her own. Finally, the Queen lowered the hand pressed to her mouth to her stomach, resting her hand on its slight natural curve, possibly subconsciously as she didn’t seem particularly aware she was doing it, breathing deeply all the way. It didn’t take Elsie longer than two seconds to piece together the Queen’s condition.

“Is there anything I can get you, ma’am?” She asked as she helped the woman into the bed. “I remember Lady Grantham to be fond of salted crackers when she was with child.”

Mary looked up in astonishment. “You’re a sharp woman, Mrs Carson.”

“I may not have any children of my own, but I’ve been privy to plenty of women who have. I recognise the signs is all.”

Mary laughed quietly, smoothing her hand over the not-yet-present bump. The curve already there was present after a near straight decade of childbearing. This child had yet to make itself known, she was only two months along after all. “Yes, I suppose it is quite distinct to spot.”

Elsie observed the woman, noting how she didn’t have the blissed, happy air of a newly expectant mother. Instead she seemed on the edge of tears. “But I imagine… you do not want people to know just yet.”

Mary shook her head, sniffing. “No, not yet. T-The doctor isn’t sure yet what…what effect the incident may have had on the child.” Mary couldn’t stop her tears falling at this, burying her face in her hands to hide her shame.

Elsie stood for a moment, unsure of what to do. So, she reached out her hand and gently placed it on the Queen’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. She then went into her pocket to withdraw a handkerchief which she offered to the crying woman. Mary took the item, drying her eyes daintily with its corners. She offered it back to the housekeeper who shook her head. “Keep it.”

Mary smiled gratefully. “You’re very kind.”

“It’s the least I can do.” She said softly, before reverting back to the no-nonsense housekeeper. “But what I will do is work with Mrs Patmore until we find a solid set of foods you can manage, since eggs don’t seem to agree with your palette.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist, we cannot have you starving. I assume that is why Lady Merton came down to the kitchen ordering us to keep well supplied with ginger tea and toast.”

Mary chuckled at that. Lady Merton did seem to be a formidable woman, and she suspected Mrs Carson was also not to be trifled with. “You’re both very kind. I suppose with the three of you watching over me there’s no question of my not eating.”

Elsie smirked. “You guessed right. Though Mrs Patmore could manage that on her own. She’d be up here spoon-feeding you, if you so much as tried to send the tray back anything resembling full.”

“Well,” Mary giggled. “I’m fortunate to be so well looked after.”

Elsie smiled. “I’ll be back with the salt crackers to try, ma’am. Is there anything else I can get you?”

“A new book perhaps? This one is dreadfully dull. My husband selected it for me, but I’m afraid we do not quite have the same idea as to what constitutes as fine literature.”

“I see. Any preference?”

“What would you recommend?”

“Well I am partial to Robert Burns.”

“Ahh, Scottish through and through aren’t you?”

“And proud of it.”

“Very well,” Mary agreed. “I’ll go with your suggestion of Burns, but know I’ll be holding you accountable if I end up more bored than I already am.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Elsie replied in mock seriousness. “I would so hate to be locked in the tower for my incompetence.”

Mary’s laughter rang through the gallery as Mrs Carson opened the door. She spared one last smile for the pregnant Queen before departing.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wednesday 25th May 3:25 pm

The hours between luncheon and tea were the quietest in any stately home. It was the rare hour of the day that the upper class actually managed to entertain themselves by means of reading, walks or an afternoon nap if one was so inclined.

Barrow had quickly learned as a footman when in the day he could have time to himself and sneak of with no one noticing. This habit carried well into his days as a butler. Or second butler as he supposed he now was.

He and Carson would be sharing their responsibilities as butler, in a senior and junior form if you will. Barrow would manage breakfast and luncheon and be available when the bell rung at any point in the day. Carson would arrive at the Abbey in time to ring the gong and supervise dinner. Though arguably the day kept the butler busier, the evening was of more importance. It was the time the family put on their finest and dined to impress. The two former meals of the day were certainly more informal and did not require as perfecting standards.. Also, because his wife would not let him return for the full-time position on account of his tremor. Dinner was supervised, he did not have to serve. Hence why Carson had promptly claimed the evening as his domain

Barrow tried to be bitter about it. He really did.

But he couldn’t quite manage it. The free time meant he was able to spend time with the king’s secondary valet. The two had just arrived at York when the news that the Queen had been shot reached their ear. Without second thought, the two jumped back into the car and returned to the Abbey, not really sure as to the help they could provide but feeling it was a moment one just had to be there for.

A rapping of knuckles on the door attracted Thomas’ attention, as he found the subject of his thoughts staring straight back at him.

Ellis smirked at the butler’s bewildered expression, strolling into the room, hands clasped behind his back.

Thomas cleared his throat nervously. “Can I help you?”

Ellis nodded in mock-seriousness. “Indeed, you can. You see it has come to my attention an injustice has taken place.”

Thomas quirked his eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes. You see, it seems you have been robbed of a day-off. Most unfortunate. But coincidently the same appears to have happened to me.”

Thomas smiled slightly, seeing where this was heading.

“So, I perhaps wondered if the butler could give me permission to take tomorrow off to go York to see my parents. They were most disappointed I couldn’t make it and wish to also hear news of the Queen.”

Thomas nodded slowly. “Of course, you can.”

Richard smiled in thanks, turning towards the door before turning back. “Oh, and I wondered if I may also receive permission to take one of the Downton staff with me.”

Oh. Thomas’ heart dropped. Maybe he had misread the situation.

“They wouldn’t be needed for the day, there’s others that can step into their shoes easily enough.”

Thomas nodded wearily. Of course, why would Ellis ask him again.

“If they are not needed, then of course you may take them.”

Richard smiled, this time leaving the room completely. Thomas slumped back in his seat, trying not to let his disappointment show.

“Oh,” Richard’s head popped back round the door frame. “You’ll be needing to inform Carson he’ll have full butler duty tomorrow.”

Thomas brightened, albeit cautiously. “You…”

Richard shook his head, amused. “Of course I meant you, you daft apeth. Who else could I have possibly meant?” And with that, he disappeared again, leaving Thomas with a strange fluttering in his chest.

“Damn it all,” he chuckled to himself. Yep, he was definitely in trouble.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wednesday 25th May 4:15 pm

It wasn’t often that David spent any time with his father. Not since he started having any choice in the matter. And when he did, he always wondered what possessed him to agree to it in the first place. He’d quite successfully avoided him for the most part in the near month they’d been residing at Downton. The man was truly insufferable. He’d spent a good portion of their hours walking grilling him for Lord knows what. Honestly, David had stopped listening. Not that that fazed the King in anyway.

They were due back at the abbey soon for tea, and no doubt his mother was getting restless and was itching for decent conversation. Which David was more than willing to provide as long as the devil himself wasn’t present. He and his siblings were still at the abbey with their parents. It made David’s skin crawl being in the same house as that man again.

He did have to hand his father one thing thought; he was still absolutely smitten with the Queen. David vaguely remembered when he was younger and his mother was pregnant with the youngest of his siblings, that his father practically waited on her, hand and foot. It was the one lesson David was willing to take from his father. And even that one was taught inadvertently.

“We should get back to see Mama,” he interrupted the King’s rumblings.

“Yes yes, quite right. I don’t want you doing anything to upset her today. Not in her condition.”

David rolled his eyes. “ _I_ don’t do anything to upset her. _You_ have a hand in it just as much as I do, in our inability to get along.”

“What nonsense..”

“It’s true,” snapped David. The King stared, shocked that he’d even dared to take such a tone.

“You’re too harsh. And I rebelled against it. Neither of us will change. Mother knows that, and it deeply upsets her. But for once in your life can you actually speak to me without sounding disappointed in me? I just don’t understand what it was I did that, _so young_ , you decided to punish me for it.”

“I never punished you,” the King scoffed.

“THEN WHY DID IT FEEL LIKE IT?” David roared. “I COULD NEVER DO ANYTHING RIGHT IN YOUR EYES, NONE OF US COULD! FOR YEARS WE HATED YOU! HATED YOU BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T LOVE US. AND NOW THERE’S ANOTHER CHILD FOR YOU TO MAKE FEEL WORTHLESS!”

“I NEVER MADE ANY OF MY CHILDREN FEEL WORTHLESS, AND NEITHER WILL I THIS CHILD.”

“YES YOU DID, AND YOU WILL. IT’S ALL YOU KNOW HOW TO DO.”

The two men stood in a face off panting heavily from the exertion of shouting. They were both furious, but slowly feeling the fury dissipate from the release of finally saying what they thought.

“The worst part is you don’t even know you do it.”

The staring continued, until finally George spoke again.

“You’re wrong you know.” George spoke calmly, in a manner that defied his anger. “I loved you all. More than you ever knew.”

“Well you’re right about that. We never bloody knew.”

With that David stalked back to the Abbey, leaving his father in silent contemplation of his son’s words, a small feeling of guilt gnawing away at his heart. Slowly he put one foot in front of the other and followed the path David had trodden in the long grass back to the abbey.

\------------------

From the next hill over, Major Chetwood watched as the small figures he made out to be the King and the Prince of Wales, walk back towards Downton.

He wasn’t near enough to attempt anything now, nor would he be so foolish at to try anything unplanned. He was already a wanted man, so he didn’t have many chances to try again. If he was to go down, it would be for the murder of the King, not the attempted killing.

He just had to hide in waiting, and ex-serviceman had no qualms with sleeping in the woods for a while.

It would be worth it in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apeth is the shortened down, modern version of what used to be ‘ha’p’orth’, meaning half-penny worth. It is Yorkshire slang, used to describe someone as a fool.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things should be picking up considerably after this chapter so bare with!  
> But I couldn't simply pass over Mary's birthday in the month of May! It was how she got her nickname after all :)

Thursday 26th May 1927 7:45 am

“Is she awake?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Well knock!”

“I’m not knocking!”

“Well I’ll knock!”

“You knock then.”

“Look I’ll bloody knock if it’ll get us in the room any faster.”

The Queen’s children were huddled outside the door to their mother’s room. Mary, George, and David, were arguing between them about who would knock on the door, and generally behaving worse than the actual children they had with them. Mary’s two sons, George and Gerald, had driven over from Harewood with their mother, and were making faces at the baby Elizabeth, who was gurgling contently in her father’s arms, her mother cooing at her saying, “are we going to see Granny? Yes, we are.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! I’ll just do it.” Henry pushed his way through his siblings and their drooling offspring and raised his fist to knock on the door. And stopped short.

For the door swung open to reveal their father, dressed in his pyjamas and robe, looking far from merely unamused. He’d clearly heard their bickering from the other side of the door; which judging by the look on his face, had woken him up in the process. Henry gulped and took a step back into the refuge of his siblings who had gone just as pale, if not paler, than he had. They knew that face well, it haunted them. Fortunately, they were saved by the very people George could not possibly be mad at.

“GRANDPA.” Two bullets whizzed past the legs of the unsuspecting adults, hitting a few on the way, to launch themselves headfirst at their grandfather.

“Oomph,” George wheezed, as the slightly taller child’s head collided with his stomach, the force of the pair knocking him backwards onto the floor; the two children taking this fine opportunity to add insult to injury and climb all over him as his own children watched in horror and faint amusement. Their fear dissipated when they heard George’s rumbling laughter, accompanied by Mary’s sleepy chuckle, who had clearly seen her husband disappear behind the door only to come flying back with eight additional limbs. She watched lovingly as her grandsons started to bombard George with a million questions, all whilst trying to pin him to the floor.

“Grandpa, grandpa, did you know it’s Granny’s birthday?.”

George gasped in mock surprise, fending off small, flailing feet that were threatening to bruise his ribs, as his own children stepped over the king, into the room with armfuls of presents. “Well I never! Is it really?!”

“YES!” Gerald shrieked excitedly, as his grandfather finally regained an, albeit seated, vertical position.

“Well why don’t you say happy birthday to Granny, then.” Elizabeth said, gesturing to the woman in the bed, arms free of the pile of presents.

“GRANNY,” the two boys spun around squealing, previously too preoccupied with George to notice their grandmother smiling at them, sat up in bed. Before anyone knew they would, the boys broke out into a run. The King’s arms shot out and grabbed one, David leapt into action and grabbed the other, scooping him up.

“Woah there, let’s not _jump on_ Granny, hmm? You have to be careful,” he said, knowing perfectly well that the word careful did not exist in his nephews’ limited vocabulary.

Gerald nodded solemnly as his uncle placed him at the foot of the bed next to his brother. The two shifted around, unsure of what to do, until Mary opened her arms and the two flung themselves at her, despite the half-shouted protests of the other adults. The boys somehow both managed to fit on Mary’s lap, interlocking their arms around her neck as she peppered kisses on their giggling faces.

Releasing their captive, Mary’s grandsons bounded over to the growing pile of presents, eager to start tearing the wrapping.

Bertie took advantage of the distraction of his vivacious nephews’, to take the baby over to Mary.

“Hello, darling,” Mary cooed, reaching to take her baby granddaughter, who clapped with glee at the sight of her Granny.

“How are you feeling, Mama?” Mary asked, wrestling her sons away from the all-too-tempting stack of boxes and packages. She was the only of the Queen’s children not to be staying at Downton since she already lived close by, and hence hadn’t seen her mother as much as the others.

“Much better, sleepy but not much else.”

“And sick to your stomach,” piped up Elizabeth.

“Yes well, unfortunately that’s no different to when I was pregnant with any of them,” she sighed, gesturing to her regiment of offspring, who were now sat and draped over various pieces of furniture; George was sat on the chaise lounge, Harry at his feet, David and Bertie in the two armchairs drinking tea. “You were the worst,” she said, pointing her finger accusingly at Mary, who was now sat by her mother’s feet, smiling at her niece who was trying to grab her Granny’s finger.

“Is this more like when you were pregnant with me or the boys?”

Mary thought for a moment, brushing Lilibet’s tight curls with her fingers. “More like yours I think.”

“Do you think you’re having another girl?” Elizabeth asked.

“I had thought about it. I know George would love another daughter.”

“I would,” The King appeared at his wife’s side, pressing a kiss to her temple, reaching around to pick up his darling Lilibet. “But for now, you have presents to open.”

The presents were piled up on the bed around the Queen, her grandsons squeezing themselves into the remaining gaps by her side. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have breakfast first?” Princess Mary asked.

“No, I’ll eat a little later when I feel a bit more up to it,” she answered, slipping her nail under the first of the present’s wrapping. It was a box filled with the most beautiful baby clothes Mary had seen.

“Oh..” she gasped. “They’re lovely.”

“Those are from Mary and I,” explained Elizabeth. “As well as Lady Merton, Lady Bagshaw, and Lady Grantham.”

“Quite the band of protectors you’ve got there,” said Harry.

“They’ve all been so kind in looking after me. Mrs Carson and Mrs Patmore as well.”

“I like the sound of these women,” David supplied.

“I wouldn’t have thought they were your type,” Prince George sniped, earning giggles from his siblings and an eyeroll from the eldest of them.

“On the contrary, I would’ve thought they were exactly David’s type,” chuckled Princess Mary.

“What, old?”

“Married.”

Elizabeth snorted; Bertie’s tea shot out of his nose, Mary and Harry were laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe. The Queen bit her lip as her husband glared at their children. She shook her head, turning back to her grandchildren who were staring questioningly into the box of tiny clothes.

“Granny why are there baby clothes?” little Georgie asked.

“They’re for a baby, darling.”

“Lili?”

“No, Granny’s baby.”

“Granny’s getting a baby?” Gerald puzzled.

Mary chuckled. “Yes sweetheart. Do you remember when Aunt Lizzy had Lilibet in her tummy?”

The boys nodded.

“Well Granny has a baby in her tummy.”

Silence.

“You ate a baby?!” Georgie asked horrified.

George laughed heartily at his grandson as his wife tried to explain without going into too much detail of the whole process.

Children certainly were a wonder.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday 26th May 1927 12:35 pm

The city of York was quite literally a throwback in time. Even for the early twentieth century. The city itself was founded in 71AD as a military fortress, that was later rebuilt in stone. Clifford’s tower stood as the only remaining part of the original castle, and its surrounding buildings were a mishmash of centuries and eras; ranging from Georgian to Tudor; 11th century to 18th. It had charm and history; something the British loved. The area this was most noticeable was a small section of the town, fondly referred to by locals as ‘the Shambles’.

That was where Richard Ellis and his companion were currently heading, The Shambles. His parents owned a little teashop halfway down the street and he could honestly say it was one of his favourite places on earth. A sentiment he hoped the man next to him would one day share. He’d taken some time, but Richard had managed to convince Thomas that there was no use in waiting in a pub for the entire day and that he may as well join Richard in visiting his parents.

“Here we are,” he announced most ceremoniously, signalling towards a forest green sign with gold swirling lettering that read ‘Mabel’s tearoom’. The window frame was painted the same green to match and set quite nicely against the dark stone. If Barrow squinted against the sunlight reflecting off the glass, he could just see the interior and noted there were several customers. He was more distracted by his friends sunny, smiling face. Richard was staring at him expectantly like he was waiting for him to say something.

“It’s cute,” Barrow smirked, faintly amused at how excited Richard seemed to be about his parent’s tearoom.

Richard rolled his eyes good-naturedly at Thomas’ teasing, continuing to grin like an idiot as he grabbed Thomas’ hand and pulled him into the shop. “Come on.”

The interior was slightly darker than Barrow had anticipated so he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, what he saw pleased him greatly.

The panelled wood was dark, the floor even darker. There was a fire crackling away in the grate, giving the place a cosy-homelike-feel as the aroma of coffee, tea and freshly baked bread filled the air. The back wall was lined with books that several customers appeared to have taken out to read as they drank or ate alone, the rest chatting happily amongst themselves. It reminded Thomas of the library at Downton, but much more intimately confined and set out.

“My isn’t this quaint?” He exclaimed, much to the delight of the man accompanying him.

“I knew you’d like it!”

Their loud conversation appeared to have attracted the attention of a woman behind the counter who promptly disappeared into the back. When she returned, she was followed by a kindly-looking old woman, with flour dusted over her wrinkled face and greying hair, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Richard!” she cried; arms open as she moved to engulf her son in a bear-hug.

“Hello mum,” Richard said, accepting his mother’s floury kiss and reciprocating with one of his own. He quickly took out his handkerchief to wipe away the evidence that had transferred over to his face and jacket.

“It’s been too long since you’ve come t’see us!”

Richard’s face scrunched up in an imitation of a particularly snooty gentleman. “Well I’m very sorry, one does not simply have freedom to request holiday from the king whenever he wishes.”

Mabel swatted at her son good-naturedly. “Cheeky bugger,” she mumbled, turning her attention to Thomas. “An’ who’s this fine gentleman you’ve brought along with ya?”

Thomas couldn’t help but notice Richard’s mother’s strong Yorkshire accent; it was far more prevalent that in anyone he worked with.

“Mum, this is Mr Barrow, the butler at Downton.”

“Thomas please,” Thomas said, sticking his hand out to shake that of Richard’s mothers.

“Oh! So, this is the famous Thomas you’ve been yappin’ on about in ya letters?” She asked, looking to her son who flushed red in embarrassment.

“Mother…”

Thomas chuckled nervously, only to find himself yanked forward and into the arms of the old woman, who crushed him into a hug much like the one she’d given Richard.

“Lovely to finally meet you,” she said when she’d finally released him. “But goodness, young man, you’re all skin and bones! Don’t they feed you at that grand house?”

Thomas laughed. “They do I assure you. Mrs Patmore is constantly feeding us.”

Mabel tutted. “Well I’ve a few words to say to this Mrs Patmore woman n’all. Y’need fattening up lad. Sit down and I’ll get youse somethin’ t’eat. Ya Dad’ll be back soon, and we want to hear all about this bloody shooting business!”

“Really it’s quite alright…”

“Just let her,” Richard muttered, as the woman walked away having ignored Thomas’ stuttering anyway. “She’ll just force feed you it if you don’t accept it. She likes to fuss.”

Thomas smiled. It must be nice to have a mother like Mabel; caring about things like if you’re eating enough or if you’ve got a thick enough coat. It was nice to be fussed over. So, if Mabel wanted to fuss over Thomas, who the hell was he to complain.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Thursday 26th May 1927 5:05 pm

The sun was beginning to set on the glorious spring evening at Downton abbey. The day had been divine, sunny without a single cloud in the sky. Mary had so wanted to leave the confines of her bed to enjoy it, but was refused on account of Lady Merton, Lady Bagshaw and Mrs Carson saying no. So instead she’d taken a nap. Quite a long one as it turned out as she’d fallen asleep sometime around two and had woken at five, extremely groggy and disoriented.

When she had fully emerged from her sleep-addled state, she pushed herself up into a seated position, only to notice a box on George’s pillow.

Curiosity peaked; she moved the box from the pillow to her lap. Initially she thought it from George, as he never gave his present until they were alone, but alas their children had pulled him from the room to go walking, demanding that Mary rest. However, it was not from George, as the tag read ‘Queen Mary’, as opposed to his affectionate ‘May’.

Slightly puzzled but nonetheless intrigued, Mary pulled the ribbon and lifted the lid to the box. A smile quickly overtook her features, as she gasped in glee. She knew exactly who this was from.

Over the past week of visits, delivering of food and various sources of literature, Mary and Mrs Carson had developed quite a friendly relationship. Mrs Carson now brought the Queen all her meals, which suited Mary just fine, and recommended books for Mary to read after she had thoroughly enjoyed the Burns selection available in the Grantham library. They had discussed, however briefly, particular favourites, and Mary had mentioned she was extremely fond of Dante’s inferno. A classic she and enjoyed since living in Florence as a young woman.

There, nestled in tissue paper, was a rather beautiful copy of Dante’s masterpiece, which Mary knew must have cost the housekeeper a pretty penny.

She was musing on the thoughtfulness of the woman, when the door to her room opened, and in walked the King, freshly changed from his walk into more relaxed clothes, as he would be dining with his wife in her room tonight, as she was not permitted by any member of her team of carers to even so much as attempt to climb the stairs unless her life depended on it. And honestly, she was much too scared to disobey them.

“Hello darling,” George said, leaning over to bestow a loving kiss to his wife’s lips. “What’s this?” He asked, gesturing to the opened present on her lap.

“Oh, it’s a most thoughtful present from Mrs Carson. She left it on your pillow. I mentioned how much I loved Dante, and she gave me this.”

“That is most generous,” he agreed. While he didn’t share his wife’s love of books, he knew an expensive one when he saw one. “I’m afraid my present will quite pale in comparison now, I don’t think I should give it to you.”

Mary gasped in mock indignation. “George Frederick Ernest Albert, you hand over that present right now!”

George sighed dramatically. “No, no I don’t think I can.”

He had planned to continue teasing Mary further, but that idea went to hell in a handbasket when Mary’s face transformed into a sad pout that he knew he couldn’t resist.

“Oh no, please don’t do that.”

Mary continued to pout, proceeding to make her eyes look even sadder.

“Darling, you know I can’t resist that face…”

And still she pouted.

He caved. “Fine,” he said sulking, handing her the small box.

Mary giggled delightedly at her husband who looked rather put out to have given in so early. “You had no chance,” she cackled, quite undignifiedly.

“It’s a weakness,” he protested. “One you use to an unfair advantage! Mary does the same, you should never have taught her it!”

Mary hummed in agreement, rather pleased with her work. “And if this one is a girl; I’ll teach her to do the same.”

George shook his head in mock exasperation as his wife laughed harder still. “You’d better not.”

Mary simply shrugged as she turned to the task of unwrapping her husband’s gift. It was jewellery, she knew that much from the box. Wrapping aside, she opened it to reveal a gorgeous silver necklace that had six different coloured precious stones embedded in its pendant, with an empty space right at the top for another stone.

“Oh George, it’s beautiful,” she gasped. “But why the different colours?”

“They’re all our children’s birthstones.”

“Oh…” she said softly. Tears building up in her eyes, threatening to spill over.

“Don’t cry, May,” he said, kissing her head softly.

“All I do is cry these days,” she said through a watery chuckle. “Would you explain each one? I’m afraid I’m not very good with birthstones.”

“Well,” he started, perching on the bed beside her, their bodies pressed together, and pointing to the stone at the bottom of the necklace. “The pearl is for David, born in June. The two blue ones on either side, for Bertie and George, born in December. The diamond is for Mary, in April. The aquamarine for Henry in March, and the Ruby for John in July.”

Mary leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder, content to let him explain it all to her. She looked up when she heard him pause.

“And this one,” he said, slightly shakily. “Is for the baby, whenever they decide to arrive.”

Mary looked at her husband in concern. “What is it?”

George sighed, letting the pendant drop into his lap with his hands. “May…do you think…do you think I’m a bad father?” He asked without raising his eyes from his lap.

“What? Never!” she gasped. “Why would you even say such a thing?”

“It’s something David said. He said how they never felt like I loved them, that I was too hard on them.”

“Well you always were harder on the boys than you were with Mary, but I never doubted for a moment that you didn’t love them!”

“That’s not the same as them knowing it, is it?”

Mary stayed silent, unsure of what to say that wouldn’t hurt her husband’s feelings.

“Maybe, thinking back, it’s why they were all so afraid of me. Mary not so much, but the boys certainly! Sometimes it feels like they despise me! David more so than the others but you can still see their contempt well enough.”

“They don’t hate you! Henry and George used to tease you to no end, still do! Why I remember them helping Johnny play pranks on you. Bertie has always been quiet, but you have so much in common and he knows this, he’s always adored you.”

George nodded, listening to his wife’s words.

“And as for David…well…talk to him!”

George scoffed, “I tried, he will not listen!”

“Then reach out to him! Fight the urge to criticise him whenever you spend time together. Demonstrate that you have faith in him and praise him when he does something well. That’s all he’s ever wanted! Your approval.”

“I am proud of him,” George whispered.

Mary kissed the side of his head before pressing her forehead to his temple. “I know that.”

George finally looked up at her, kissing the back of her hand. “I promise I’ll try. And I’ll try my damned hardest to be a better father to this one,” he said, placing his hand on her abdomen.

Mary shook her head as he kissed her stomach, just above where his hand lay. “You’ll be a wonderful father to this one.”

George stared adoringly at Mary. “My god, what did I do to deserve you?”

“You know…I ask myself that question all the time.”

Mary smiled as her husband roared with laughter, her eyes crinkling at the corners, as she ran her fingers through his hair. She pecked his lips and sunk into his answering kiss. They were going to be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shambles is one of my absolute favourite places on earth; it’s home to a total of three Harry Potter shops, as well as several old fashioned sweet shops!  
> Also, I attempted to make Richard’s mother speak with a Yorkshire accent, so I just tried to write how I would pronounce things if my accent gets quite heavy. It makes more sense I you read it aloud, though I don’t think there’s anything too hard to understand!  
> And I have it on good authority that Queen Mary actually did enjoy reading Dante, along with Goethe and Molière.
> 
> As always let me know what you think!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got the next few chapters all planned out and a couple of free days to write them all so you'll be getting a few updates!

Tuesday 5th July 1927 3:30 am

The dogs were going ballistic; barking at some unknown entity only they were aware of beyond the confines of the farmhouse. The farmer rushed down the stairs, hurriedly trying to tie his robe, in case there was someone at the door at this ungodly hour for any reason.

Stepping over the two distressed border collies, the sixty-two-year-old man leaned over the sink to look out the kitchen window that provided a view to the porch. No one there. And yet the dogs continued to bark. He turned to shush them but stopped.

The faint light emitting from the kitchen cast itself over the small patch of garden he had before his fields. It also lit part of the chicken coop, where the farmer saw a man rummaging around.

He ran to the front door and wrenched it open. “Oi!” He shouted, his dogs shooting past his feet towards the intruder. The man looked up startled, dropping the contents of his hands before bolting through the fields, the dogs hot on his heels.

The farmer knew he’d stand little chance of catching the man on foot, so he saw no point in joining the chase. Instead he went over to the coop to see what the thief had dropped. In his hast, the man had smashed a dozen or so eggs which now lay beside a wrung chicken and a piglet with its throat slit. It was an odd combination. Usually thieves took a live adult of any of the animals to breed or sell for a greater amount of money. This looked more like he was planning to consume them himself. He was living in the wild.

This man was on the run.

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Tuesday 12th July 1927 12:10 pm

The summer of 1927 had been a pleasant one on all accounts. Sun shining, birds chirping and all that; but truly there had only been a handful of dreary days to count. But Mary had only been able to enjoy the latter few days out in the sun, when Doctor Clarkson had finally released her from bedrest, but only on the condition that she ‘take it easy’. Like Mary even had a choice in the matter. No sooner was she out of bed, there was someone there immediately offering assistance whenever she so much as sat a little straighter.

It was truly driving her mad. It didn’t help that she couldn’t smoke whilst she was pregnant. The first few months it hadn’t bothered her terribly, mainly because she more or less slept for the whole time. But now she was up and about again, she increasingly had to resist the urge to snap in irritation at anyone who fussed over her. Which was more or less everybody. Only David seemed to be relaxed about the whole thing, or at least was so outwardly. And for that Mary was incredibly thankful. So, she began to spend more and more time in the company of her eldest son, occasionally with her husband or another family member joining them.

It pleased Mary to see her husband trying more with his children; he’d take them on walks and picnics, fishing and would join them in the nursery, playing with the children. They all seemed to be getting on much better with the elder gentleman. And he’d made more of an effort with David, the two often went riding and returned without having attempted murder on the other party. It was progress.

Today the two families had decided to go on a picnic, not venturing too far for the sake of the Queen who tired relatively quickly. The adults sat on the picnic blanket with the children and chairs were brought for the elder aristocrats and the two sovereigns, though George gave up his chair to join the impromptu game of cricket that had been set up, unable to return to it anyway as the seat had been claimed quite determinedly by Sybbie Branson, whom Mary was, by demand of the young lady herself, explaining the rules of cricket to.

The King, David, Branson, Dickie, and ‘Prince’ Bertie formed one team; whilst Robert, Henry, George, Harry, and Bertie Pelham formed the other, the two ‘Berties’ having been spilt up to avoid confusion, though David started calling his brother all kinds of pet names which were getting more and more creative by the minute, much to Bertie’s irritation, and everyone else’s amusement. As the two butlers were present, having been dragged along to serve luncheon, Thomas was left to serve whilst Carson, the more proficient of the two in cricket, had been called in to referee, with Master George, Gerald, and little Georgie ‘assisting’ him.

The coined was tossed and Lord Grantham’s team would bat first, calling the winning tails, as George of course had the monopoly over the image of his own face. Much good it did him.

The game progressed nicely, and as the first hour drew to a close, the scoring was almost neck and neck, Lord Grantham’s team just beating them. Mary could see the determination in her husband’s eyes; he really was such a sore loser.

The vacant seat beside Mary was one again filled, as Sybbie had relinquished it some time ago, replaced with her grandmother.

“It’s such a lovely day,” Cora sighed.

Mary hummed her agreement, tilting her face to soak up the sun. “It is. It’s such a joy to finally be outside again, I was going quite mad.”

Cora raised her eyebrow in mock surprise. “Really? I would never have guessed.”

Mary scoffed. “I wasn’t that bad,” she muttered.

Cora had to stifle a giggle. “Is that so? I’ve heard Mrs Carson, Isobel, and Maud place wagers and whoever loses has to bring you your breakfast in the morning.”

Mary harrumphed in indignation. “They do not!”

Cora’s giggle burst free, and Mary couldn’t help but join her. “Oh, I know I’ve been a bit unbearable lately, but I am grateful to you all.”

Cora softened. “There’s nothing to thank us for, we did it because we care about you.”

Mary smiled and squeezed Cora’s arm.

All of a sudden, Mary let out a slight gasp, pressing her hand to the right side of her bump, the hand still holding Cora’s arm squeezed ever so slightly harder.

“Are you alright?” asked Cora, noticing the increase of pressure on her arm.

“Yes, I’m fine. I just thought…no, no nevermind.” 

The two women returned to a comfortable silence watching the game.

Until.

“I heard the wager this morning was who could make the kitchen maid cry first.”

Mary slapped the laughing Countess’ arm.

\----------- 

The air on the field was tense, almost unbearable. They needed one more wicket, just one. If David knocked it over they’d won. The only trouble was, the batter was Branson, and so far he hadn’t missed a single hit.

David, being the best bowler on the team had obviously taken that position, his father as the wicketkeeper. They all felt this moment to be more pivotal that it actually was, but it was a matter of pride. The winners would get bragging rights, and unofficial permission to make life unbearable for the loser’s, an easy task considering they were all living under the same roof.

This was it. This was the moment. He could see the challenge in Branson’s eye, the faint smirk on his lips, he was confident of victory.

David felt the rush of adrenaline, the tensing of his leg muscles, as he sprung forward into a run, swinging his arm up and over his shoulder. The ball bounced and flew just left of Branson’s bat, hitting the wicket, and for a few tense seconds it wobbled until at last it toppled.

They’d won.

The roar of the winning team was enormous, all members running centre-field to congratulate each other, David in the middle.

“Well done, my boy,” George boomed, clapping David’s shoulder with a real look of pride on his face. David lit up, pleased as punch that his father had saw fit to congratulate him. He didn’t linger as the others wanted a turn to praise David. Instead he watched his father walk over to his mother who was beaming at them both. David smiled, and turned to join in the taunting of the losing team, which they had decided at the beginning involved a ceremonial dunking. Or just a shove into the nearest pond, of which Lord Grantham was the first unfortunate recipient. The younger members were thrown in by two men at once, until they all finally emerged drenched and humiliated, much to the glee of all the onlookers who applauded them all as they came to sit back down.

“Well I must say I am rather exhausted,” came Dickie’s sigh, wiping the sweat of the midday heat from his brow.

“Yes, well I must admit you all smell rather ripe,” Edith said, scrunching her nose as her husband sat next to her. Her sister agreed, “I’d say you’d _all_ benefit from a dunk in the pond.”

The King’s four sons shared a look, all having the same thought at once. “What a splendid idea,” cried David, standing up. “Wouldn’t you say so, buttercup?”

”I’d _certainly_ say so,” Bertie replied.

“Indeed,” Harry agreed.

“Well you can count me out,” The King sighed, unaware that his sons were inching their way closer to him as he sat by his wife’s legs. Mary smirked as she realised exactly what was going to happen.

Soon the four men had surrounded their father, but by the time the King realised, it was too late.

“Get him lads!”

The princes grabbed one of their father’s limbs each and hauled him up the air as he struggled against them.

“Put me down!” He demanded, as the children ran after them, screaming in joy.

“On my count!” called David. “One. Two. THREE.” On the third count they released their father, throwing him into the pond, his shouts cut off as he was submerged in the water. He was welcomed with cheers when he broke the surface and scowled at the grinning faces of his idiot sons.

“Will one of you help me out of this damn pond.”

Both David and Bertie held out their hands to help their father. George grasped both and made to heave himself out of the water, before suddenly yanking his arms back and dragging the two princes into the lake headfirst.

George roared with laughter as his sons spluttered in surprise. “Oh, you find that funny, old man?” David growled. “Well try this on for size!” He launched himself across the pond, tackling his father and starting a water fight amongst all the men and children almost as competitive as the cricket match. It was a joyous afternoon.

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Tuesday 12th July 11:00 pm

The chiming of the clock on the great hall mantle echoed through the entire gallery; the house was otherwise silent. The last standing had finally retired to bed just as the clock struck the eleventh hour.

Lucy shut her mother’s bedroom door upon exit, slightly put out that her mother had retired so late.

Walking down the gallery she kept her head down, obviously not expecting to bump into anyone else this late; but bump into someone she did. She walked headfirst into Mr Branson.

“Oh my…I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going and…well, I didn’t expect anyone else to be up at this time,” she gasped.

Branson chuckled. “Don’t worry about it, I should really be in bed already, but I got too caught up in conversation with your mother, as it happens.”

Lucy’s eyes went wide. “How…how did you…?”

“More of an educated guess, I’ve been observing.”

“You don’t seem…”

“What?”

“Well, bothered by it.”

Branson shook his head. “I’m not, we’ve each got our secrets, and I know one or two people in yours and your mother’s position.”

Lucy smiled. “You know, there aren’t many people like you Mr Branson.”

Branson scoffed lightly, blushing to his roots. “Well I’m not quite sure about that. But we’ve all got our flaws, this household is no different. But I’d like to be the first to say welcome to the family.”

“Thank you,” Lucy giggled, nervously. She ducked her head, feeling butterflies in her stomach at the look Mr Branson was giving her. “I suppose I should say goodnight.”

In response, Branson gently took her hand, raising it to his lips. Lucy exhaled shakily, hoping he hadn’t heard.

“Good night, Miss Smith,” Branson said softly. “I look forward to speaking to you more.”

Lucy smiled bashfully, and continued walking to the servant’s stairwell, all whilst fighting the urge to look back, not knowing that Mr Branson stood watching he the whole way.

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Wednesday 13th July 1927 1:15 am

Mary sighed as she shifted in bed for what felt like the 100th time, and in all probability the actual number was likely a lot higher. Mary kicked hopelessly at the bed covers tangling around her feet, as her husband snored obliviously next to her. She just could not get comfortable, and usually she didn’t mind George’s snoring, but tonight it just added to her list of reasons of why she just could not get to sleep.

Mary sighed again (she did a lot of sighing these days) and shifted slightly onto her left side hoping it would be more comfortable.

It wasn’t.

Groaning, Mary gave up. Tonight, she would simply have to accept the fact that she would not sleep.

She rubbed her stomach which had now distended properly. She was now well into her fourth month and was now visibly pregnant. If she entered the public eye again there would be no need for speculation, it was plain as day. She knew the announcement would have to come soon, they’d so far planned it for her sixth month of pregnancy, after the appointment with Doctor Clarkson to hear the child’s heartbeat at twenty weeks.

It was an appointment Mary both dreaded and yearned for. She needed reassurance the child was alive.

As if answering her thoughts, the Queen felt a pressure on her lower stomach, but as quick as it came, it disappeared. Curiously, Mary moved her hand to the spot hoping to feel it again. She didn’t know how long she waited, but she felt a slight pressure again, only this time a tiny bit higher, just above her hand. It was so faint she could have almost missed it. Mary’s heart began to beat faster. “Oh, please be what I think you are,” she whispered.

Finally, she felt a much harder nudge against her hand. She gasped in delight and shot up into a seated position. The baby nudged her hand again, responding to its mother’s touch.

“George. George!” She said in a loud whisper, shaking her husband’s shoulder.

“Nnnnn,” he groaned.

“George wake up!”

It took a few more forceful shakes on his wife’s behalf but eventually the King had regained a coherent consciousness.

“George!”

“Mary what…” He quickly sat up in bed, finally hearing the urgency in his wife’s voice, mistaking the tremor of excitement for fear. “What is it, what’s wrong??”

He was thoroughly confused when his eyes finally focused in the dark on Mary’s face, only to find her smiling. “The baby’s kicking,” she whispered excitedly.

George’s eyes widened. “What?” He asked disbelievingly.

Instead of repeating herself, Mary took George’s hand and placed it where the nudging had occurred. Within seconds, Mary felt the kicking just under George’s hand. Her eyes sparkled and her smile threatened to split her face and the look of pure joy on her husband’s face was just too adorable.

“She’s kicking! Oh my…I can’t believe…oh May,” he gasped as the kicking continued.

“Yes,” Mary gave a watery chuckle, tears flowing freely. George stayed transfixed with the baby, moving his hand to see if the nudging followed, and Mary watched him contently, resting back against the pillows.

George finally tore his eyes from her stomach, smiling up at her. He pressed one last kiss to her stomach before moving up to claim her lips. Mary smiled into the kiss, unable to contain her feelings of pure bliss.

When they broke apart, Mary remembered something George had said. “You said she.”

“Hmm?”

“You said ‘she’s kicking’. Are you that convinced it’s a girl?”

George nodded, his adamant look making Mary giggle. “It is absolutely a girl.”

“What if it is a boy?”

“It isn’t.”

Mary huffed. “But if it is? Will you be disappointed?”

George softened. “No, May no. I could never be disappointed. Of course, I would like another girl since we’ve already had five sons, but I certainly wouldn’t love it any less if it was another boy.”

“The fact I’ve already given birth to five boys and only one girl, means it’s more likely to be a boy,” Mary pointed out.

“True, but didn’t you say that you feel a lot more similar to when you had Mary as opposed to when you had the boys?”

Mary nodded, conceding his point.

“Who do you think they’ll look like?” She asked curiously.

“If it’s a girl she’ll be the spit of her beautiful mother. Golden hair, blue eyes, the same smile, maybe a light dusting of freckles like David when he stays out in the sun. And she’ll be patient and kind and have me utterly wrapped around her little finger like her sister and mother do.”

Mary giggled. “And if it’s a boy?”

George contemplated this. “He’ll look slightly more like me, likely my colouring much like his brothers, but he’ll still be unmistakably yours.”

“Well,” she sighed. “We have to start thinking of names either way.”

“We will,” George nodded.

“Could we possibly venture outside the pool of names for royal children? I’m quite sick of using the same name to address forty of my acquaintances, and it’s not as if we have any living parents or grandparents to name them after.”

“No,” George agreed. “And we probably would be scraping the bottom of the royal barrel when it comes to boy’s names anyway.”

Mary nodded, and unexpectedly yawned, pressing her hand to her mouth.

George chuckled. “Well it seems someone is finally ready to sleep.”

Mary hummed, sinking into the pillows, and closing her eyes, feeling George slide down next to her. “I’ll try, but this little one is still kicking up a storm. I’d say you’ve got more chance of getting a football player, or a boxer rather than a princess.”

George laughed quietly, bringing his face closer to Mary’s belly. “Hello, little one, you need to rest now so your mummy can go to sleep, she’s very tired.” George felt a soft kick to his hand. Mary chuckled and laid her hand next to her husband’s as he softly rubbed her abdomen.

The soothing motion of the circles he drew on her stomach made her eyelids droop, and George watched lovingly as his darling May drifted off to sleep, her chest slowly rising and falling.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” He whispered. A soft kick to his palm drew his attention away. 

“And goodnight, to you too, little boxer.”

Keeping one arm wrapped around her, George laid his head next to Mary’s and drifted off into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween 🔮 🎃

Thursday 21st July 1927 1:20 pm

Since Mary’s release from her bedrest, she had spent every possible moment she could outside. Each day, should the sun make even a brief moment of appearance, a lounger was moved to sit beside the wooden bench under the tree for the Queen, who could not sit on the solid wood for very long without her back aching something terrible. She filled her days, with reading, picnics, and short walks, accompanied by anyone who was available at that time. Usually it was either David, Elizabeth, Cora, Maud, or Mrs Carson, whom she had now started to call Elsie, that escorted her. But she was always tailed by two detectives who kept a few legs behind her. This morning, her husband was her companion.

They hadn’t walked far, only a mile or so, just in case the Queen got too tired. They walked slowly, leisurely as it was indeed quite a hot day, so they chose the route that looped around the abbey in the treeline of the woods, as to afford themselves some shelter. Mary had her hand tucked into the crook of her husband’s elbow and was listening to him talk about the various engagement’s their children had undertaken in the past week.

“…and I believe Harry has taken on a new patronage…I forget what.”

Mary scoffed. “I’m surprised you were even listening.”

George chuckled. “I don’t proclaim to share many of my children’s interests, but I still must listen when they tell me about them. So long as I can remember the general gist for later conversation.”

“Hmmm.” The two lapsed back into a comfortable hush, continuing their gentle pace. A twig snapped behind them, causing Mary to jump slightly before remembering the two detectives they had with them.

“Must they follow us, George?” Mary sighed, irritated. “I do hate this constant feeling of being watched all the time. I feel like I’m living in a goldfish bowl. I don’t usually have two with me, do I?”

At this, George stayed unusually silent. Mary looked at him confused and poked him in the arm to get his attention. “George are you even listening to me?”

George sighed, he knew he’d have to tell her sooner or later. “Yes, yes May, I’m listening to you.”

“Well?”

“Darling, we can’t send them away. Not right now.”

Now Mary really was confused. “Why not?”

They’d stopped walking now, and George had pulled Mary round to face him fully; she waited until he spoke again.

“Sweetheart, you know the Major escaped from the station.”

She nodded. “Yes?” Where the hell was this going?

“Well, two weeks ago, a man matching his description was spotted in the area, at a farm 5 miles away or so.”

Mary blinked slowly, her mouth moving but unable to form words. “What?”

“He was stealing supplies and food; they think he’s living somewhere in the woods. Apparently they would have told us sooner, but the bloody sketch artist couldn’t get here until two weeks after. But it’s a match. He’s back.”

Mary’s heart stopped; she shook her head in denial. “No. No he can’t be.”

George clasped her hand tighter in comfort. “I’m afraid so. It seems he’s waiting for something.”

“Waiting,” she breathed, closing her eyes. “Waiting for what.” She already knew the answer.

George took her other hand. “We don’t know. The other one who shot you is still in custody of the court, but this man seems to be content to work alone now. So, we cannot take any chances, I cannot for a second let you be on your own. I will _NOT_ take that chance.”

Mary was shaking with fear. “George…”

George pulled his wife closer to him, wrapping his arms around her waist, letting her rest her head on his chest. A feat she could manage since she was not wearing her hat. He could feel her trembling, her breath coming out in shudders.

“Why…” she asked quietly, trailing off from her question.

“Why what?”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before? I assume you’ve known at least a couple of days?”

“I have, I didn’t want to cause you anymore distress. You’ve been through enough, you don’t need something else on your plate, not now.”

Mary huffed. “But this isn’t a separate issue, this isn’t something new. This is the same issue, the issue of the men that tried to kill me and tried to kill you for that matter!” She sighed, despondently. “They tried to kill our baby, George,” she whispered.

He kissed the crown of her head.

“I promise, May, I promise you. I will not let anyone harm you again,” he said into her hair.

“No. No you can’t promise that” she replied weakly, through her silent tears, her hand smoothing over the lapel of his jacket. “That’s how I was hurt in the first place. But the worst part is, there is an equal chance he may come after you. I’m not the only one in danger.”

George exhaled forcefully through his nose. She was right about that. “Well that may be so, but darling _you_ are my first priority, you and the baby. Not my own safety; I’ll just have to entrust that to our officers.” He shifted his hand to rest over hers on her stomach. They stayed like that for several minutes, before a detective appeared in his peripheral vision, alerting him to the fact that they didn’t actually have any privacy.

“Come, darling,” he said, jostling Mary slightly to get her attention. “Let’s go back.”

She sniffed, nodding lightly, wiping the lingering tears on her cheeks with the handkerchief her husband offered. She smiled weakly as she slipped her hand into his proffered one. They walked back to the abbey in tense silence, fingers linked tightly, and heads bowed.

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Thursday 21st July 1927 3:10 pm

The library was easily the most loved room in the house, so it was not surprising that the Queen enjoyed it too. She was currently sat in said room, taking tea with three other ladies, Cora, Isobel, and Maud, trying, if nothing else, to take her mind off of the news George had given her earlier that day. The four women were getting along famously, chatting about everything and nothing.

“So, you can really speak two other languages?” Cora asked in wonderment.

Mary nodded, sipping her tea. “Yes, three technically,” she said, placing the teacup back in its saucer. “Italian as well though I can’t speak it perfectly.”

“Most women of a certain class were taught French I suppose” said Isobel. “But what about the German and Italian?”

“Ah well. Both of my parents were German speaking, as were most of Queen Victoria’s relations. So, I learnt German, mostly because I grew up speaking it much like I did English.”

“Of course!” Isobel exclaimed. “The Duke and Duchess of Teck.”

Mary nodded, smiling at fond memories of her parents. “And Italian,” she continued, “was just something my Mother insisted I learn. She put a lot of value in my education and so I did the same for my children. And I suppose I did live in Florence for a few years during my youth.

Cora was nonetheless impressed. “Still, it’s quite something to be able to speak three extra languages. Not as commonly done now.”

“No,” Mary agreed. “But then again, George was never really taught languages properly, or at least never picked them up,” she corrected herself. “Even though his mother was Danish and nearly everyone of his grandmother’s and father’s court spoke German. So, I often had to translate for him if there was an individual who spoke no English at all.”

“Did your own children learn languages?” asked Isobel.

“They did, I made sure of it. I hired German nannies and had dinners where we would speak only French.”

“Will you teach this one to speak another language?”

“Yes, I think I will. Of course, I won’t force her if she doesn’t enjoy it, but I think if I start to teach her young maybe she’ll pick it up as she goes.”

“She?” asked Maud.

“Hmm?”

“You said she.”

Mary laughed. “Oh, did I?”

Cora smiled. “Are you hoping for a girl?”

“George certainly is,” Mary chuckled. “I’m probably saying ‘she’, because he does.”

“Would you like another daughter?” Isobel wondered.

“I would. Ooh speaking of daughters,” she turned to Maud. “I hear you have a luncheon tomorrow with Lady Violet. Will you finally tell her about Lucy?”

Maud sighed, placing her cup and saucer down. “To be perfectly honest, I’d rather just not have the luncheon at all. But I suppose I must, maybe it’ll finally put an end to her badgering at least.”

Isobel chuckled. “Well you’ll have us there for support,” she said, gesturing to herself and Cora. The two had been told about Lucy several weeks ago, nearer to the formation of this unlikely quartet.

Maud scoffed. “Not even the cavalry could save me from Violet Crawley,” she sniped.

The four women shared a giggle amongst themselves at that. It was true, Old Lady Grantham was something else. Mary rubbed her belly to sooth the kicking of her child, who it seemed was intent on joining in and sharing her amusement.

Isobel smiled. “Kicking again?” she asked.

Mary huffed a laugh. “Never stops!”

“I don’t remember my girls ever really kicking much at all,” Cora supplied.

“Nor I,” said Isobel. “Did Lucy kick much?” she asked Maud.

Maud thought about it. “I think so yes, but not as much as that child seems too,” she joked, referring to the Queen’s baby, provoking a laugh from the woman in question.

“She does move a lot,” Mary agreed. “A lot more than any of her siblings. Not that they were particularly still but they didn’t quite bruise me either, which this one seems to have undertaken as her personal mission! George calls her his ‘little boxer’.”

“Does it make you loose sleep?” The nurse in Isobel was threatening to break out. While Mary didn’t seem as tired as she had done, she still needed large amounts of rest.

Mary smoothed her hand over her side, feeling the baby follow her palm with its kicks rather than aim for her ribs as it had been doing. “At first, perhaps, not so much anymore. I’ve gotten so used to it that I can more or less ignore it. Whenever she stops I start to panic!”

“I remember doing that,” Maud said. “I would ask to call for the doctor every time she stopped for more than an hour! Thank God my maid talked me out of it; I must have driven the poor woman absolutely insane.”

“Have you heard the heartbeat yet?”

Mary sighed. “No not yet. I believe my appointment with Doctor Clarkson for that is in a couple of weeks. George is so looking forward to it.” 

“Are you excited?”

Mary grinned, unreservedly. “Very.”

Cora smiled. “I’m very happy for you. Though how you’ve managed to have so many children I’ll never know. I could barely cope after Sybil arrived, I refused to be near him for nearly a year!”

“Yes, well the King is famously very attentive,” said Maud cheekily from behind her teacup, causing Mary to blush and the other two to gasp in amusement and barely concealed delight at the juicy detail.

“Well I suppose that’s sufficient reason,” Cora laughed, as Mary burrowed her face in her hands in embarrassment.

“I remember once…”

Mary looked up sharply. “You are not telling any stories!”

“Oh please,” Cora mock pouted.

“No!”

“Well I’m telling it anyway,” Maud said firmly, a twinkle of glee in her eye.

“You are not!”

“I’d beg to differ.”

“I’d follow suit,” chimed in Isobel.

“I refuse to be anymore embarrassed than I already am!”

“Well then it’s a good job you have no say in the matter,” quipped Isobel, as Mary threw her hands up in defeat. “You were saying Maud.” 

“Oh yes. It was at Marlborough house, when they were still Prince and Princess of Wales.”

Isobel and Cora were on the edge of their seats, as Mary shrunk further back into hers.

“I was going to her Majesties rooms, only to find a maid waiting outside with the Princess’ breakfast tray. I asked her why she was still outside, and she said she didn’t think her Royal Highness should be disturbed at the present moment.”

Mary started to fiddle with the tablecloth, refusing to meet anyone’s eye, much to their ultimate amusement.

“Of course, I insist she was being ridiculous, and told her to go in. She was absolutely adamant and to be honest, the poor girl looked traumatised.”

The two listeners were practically quivering with excitement now.

“Eventually I demanded to be let in, and as I was reaching for the doorknob we heard a loud noise. It startled us both and the passing footman who was carrying his the Prince of Wales’ breakfast tray. We waited to see if we could hear it again. And alas we did.”

“Was it…” Cora couldn’t even finish her question.

“Oh yes,” Maud nodded. “It was a rather loud series of moans from a woman,” she said, looking pointedly at Mary, who was pointedly looking elsewhere. “The poor maid,” Maud laughed, joining Isobel and Cora who were wiping tears from their eyes. “She didn’t know where to look and the footman went bright red, it was all I could do not to laugh.”

“What did you say,” Isobel got out in-between gulps of air.

Maud only laughed harder; composing herself somewhat she said, “Well I told them they could either go back downstairs or wait here until they’d finished.”

Isobel and Cora cackled with laughter; Mary gasped in mortification having not been told that little titbit before.

“Oh my God…” she murmured, hiding her bright red face.

“Well…I suppose that explains the children,” Cora giggled, bright red herself from lack of air.

Mary rolled her eyes. “Are you all quite finished?”

“Oh, come on,” said Maud. “You have to admit it’s funny.”

Mary huffed. “I will do no such thing.”

“Sounds like you were enjoying yourself though,” Isobel said with as straight a face as she could muster, receiving an elbow to the ribs from Cora who was desperately trying to stifle her laughter.

Mary couldn’t help the giggle that broke through at her friend’s amusement. “We did rather,” she admitted, causing the other three women to howl with laughter. She had no recourse but to join them.

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Friday 22nd July 1927 4:20 pm

Silence could be a good thing. There are many an individual who work productively in silence, and who enjoy the company of one’s own thoughts. Silence in the presence of others could suggest comfortable companionship. It could also be quite the opposite. But silence in the company of Violet Crawley was something else altogether, in fact, it was a state of being that should be feared. It was rumoured that the woman had been spat out of hell by the devil himself. Maud was inclined to believe the rumour. The table was laden with Violet’s finest china and a lace cloth. Perhaps her maid thought people were likely to behave themselves better in finer surroundings.

In the few moments the silence became too unbearable, it often fell to Isobel and Cora to steer the conversation, as the two other women were far too preoccupied in the overhanging matter at hand; Violet wanted to discuss it, Maud so wanted to avoid it. So of course, they discussed it.

“Oh well, I see no reason to beat about the bush any longer,” Violet declared, setting down her teacup for the dramatic effect; indeed, she never did anything without a little drama. “You all know why I asked you all here…”

“Summoned us more like,” Isobel muttered into her cup, earning a giggle from Cora. Violet ignored her as she so often did.

“I’ve finally decided to bring the matter to a close.”

Maud sighed, knowing she was defeated. “Very well, let’s get to the point. Robert is my nearest relation on my father’s side.”

“He is.”

“But he will not be my heir.”

“And there you have it, Mama,” Cora interceded before the matriarch could utter another word.

“Well…” Violet stuttered. “Well…who will be?!” The shrillness in her voice was bordering on unbearable.

“Lucy Smith.”

“What?” Violet shrieked. “You’re…you’re quite mad; you’ve gone insane!”

Isobel rolled her eyes, quite used to her cousin’s hysteria. At least it made for an entertaining luncheon. “Cousin Violet I think you’ll find she’s completely sane.”

Violet rounded on her friend, eyes blazing. “Are you keeping something from me?” Her voice was a low growl. If any of them survived the hour, it would surely be by God’s will.

Isobel came to her own defence. “It’s not my secret to tell.”

“I beg to differ!”

This time it was Maud who rolled her eyes. “Violet could you please stop shouting! It would make all our lives so much easier if we could talk about this like _civilised beings_!”

“I have never made anyone’s life easier and you know it!”

Oh my, she was on fine form today.

“Mama please! Will you just calm down!”

“I will not!”

“Mama!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake Violet…”

“Lucy is my daughter!”

85 years.

85 years and Violet Crawley had never been rendered speechless until this very moment.

Silence had once again descended on the group, and this one was not filled with polite conversation. Violet was stunned, her eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets, and she looked to have stopped breathing. Cora only hoped Maud hadn’t killed her mother-in-law; she wasn’t quite sure as to how she’d explain that one to Robert.

At long last she regained enough control over her vocal capabilities to force out one word. “What?”

“Look Violet I know this is a lot to take…”

“Oh hardly, I’ve known enough scandal in my time to take it standing.” Ignoring Isobel’s scoff, she continued in her uncharacteristically polite interrogation. “But why did you not say this long ago?”

Maud sighed, in part from relief, the other, frustration. “It seemed too great a leap for you.”

“Well who do you think I am?” Violet affronted. “A maiden aunt who’s never left the village?”

If only. Maud would never have wished Violet on the larger community at any time.

“Obviously not,” she sighed.

Violet took a moment to compose herself. “Well don’t think I approve. Because I don’t.”

The three other women held their breath.

“But at least I understand.”

And exhale.

“I take it Miss Smith knows the truth?”

This time Maud responded in better spirits. “Yes, she does. The initial plan was that after I got home form the tour I was to make her my companion. But of course, circumstances changed, and we have to postpone until I can return home.”

“Well yes…a companion is much more suitable.” A sudden though occurred to her, one that quite panicked her. “Surely the Queen does not know this?”

Maud weighed her options. Lie, and they could go on living their lives peacefully, Violet never knowing any different. Or tell her the truth, and not only risk a lecture, but subsequently give the elderly woman a heart attack to boot.

As tempting as finishing Violet off was, she didn’t think it entirely fair.

“No. No she does not.”

Violet visibly relaxed. “Oh…oh well. That’s a relief.”

Maud nodded picking up her teacup. She glanced over to Isobel and Cora, who’s smirks, and pursed lips threatened to give away that they knew she was lying through her teeth.

Maud sipped her tea innocently.

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Saturday 13th August 1927 11:30 am

“Doctor Clarkson, ma’am.”

Richard Clarkson was not a timid man by nature; he didn’t get stage fright, and he was most certainly comfortable enough in his practice to consider himself something of an expert. All of that went flying out of the window the moment he agreed to be physician to the Queen for the birth of her child.

He was no less nervous this time then he had been operating on her when she was shot. Not that the Queen wasn’t a kind woman; it was the King that intimidated him. Aside from the fact that ensuring the survival of a royal baby was strain enough, the Monarch had insisted on being there for every appointment, watching over his wife for every second of it.

“May help me understand!”

Walking into the bedroom, Richard was greeted to the sight of the Queen sat at the desk finishing a letter, the King pacing behind her. “Ah, good morning Doctor Clarkson," the Queen's cheerful voice resounded. 

Richard bowed his head. “Good morning, your Majesties.”

The King grunted his reply at which the Queen rolled her eyes as she stood up. “Forgive him, he’s been like that all morning.”

George glared at his wife, who took no notice of him, and made herself comfortable on the bed for Doctor Clarkson to begin his examination.

“Anxious to hear the heartbeat?” Richard asked, placing his carpet bag at the end of the bed, near Mary’s feet, and shrugging off his jacket to drape it over the end of the bed.

“Well yes, that too,” said Mary, shifting slightly. “But not entirely.”

“I see,” said Richard. He didn’t see at all; it just wasn’t his place to pry.

George huffed and Mary rolled her eyes again. The tension was palpable and frankly, Richard was just growing more and more uncomfortable. He just busied himself with laying out the various instruments he’d need whilst the King and Queen glared daggers over his head at one another.

“Right. Ma’am if you could just…”

“Doctor Clarkson, what do you think about men being present at childbirth?”

Richard blinked at the King’s interruption, gaping like a fish for the briefest of seconds. “I’m sorry, sir?”

Mary would’ve rolled her eyes again had she not been afraid of them remaining in that position from overuse. “He’s insisting on being present for the birth.”

“…I see.”

He waited for them to continue but looked up only to find them staring at him expectantly. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, it is not…uncommon nowadays for a man to wish to be there to support his wife…”

“You see, May; it’s not unreasonable.”

Mary scoffed. “Darling you’ve never been present before.”

“But I want to be now!”

“You’d only be uncomfortable.”

Richard saw he’d have to intervene if we wished to conduct the exam at all. “Your Majesty, if I may?”

“Of course, our apologies Doctor Clarkson,” the Queen laid back against the pillows and pulled her chemise over her stomach. She had dressed in a long skirt and chemise, with a cardigan, purposely for the examination.

Doctor Clarkson gently felt her stomach, cautious that his hands were quite chilly. “I apologise, my hands may be a little cold, even though I’ve tried to warm them.”

Mary waved him off. “It’s no bother, they don’t feel too cold.”

“Any pain or cramps?” he asked, continuing with his exam.

Mary shook her head. “No none, just the incessant kicking. It’s fond of a particular spot near my right ribs.”

Richard chuckled. “Intent on proving itself to be a fighter! Which it most certainly is to have survived the ordeal it has.”

“Just like her mother,” George said, proudly; having gotten over his previous sulk. Mary shot him a smile.

Richard raised an eyebrow, turning to the King. “You think it’s a girl?”

“You don’t?”

Richard shrugged. “If I were a betting man I’d say not, based on the probability that the Queen has already had five sons. However, the Princess Royal herself was an exception; this child may just follow it’s sister’s example.” He unwound his stethoscope from around his neck. “It certainly is active, so I feel you’ll have your hands full regardless.”

The King and Queen chuckled. Richard rubbed the face of the instrument over his palm to warm its metal surface. “Whilst I have no doubt this child is in fact alive; I assume you’d still like to hear the heartbeat?” His patient and her husband nodded eagerly. “Good. Now, ma’am I’ve tried to warm this also, but I fear no matter what I do it’ll still be freezing.”

He placed the stethoscope against her stomach, noting her gasp at its iciness. The King had moved to sit next to the Queen and was holding her right hand. If Richard was correct, he did not believe the King had ever heard one of his child’s heartbeats; nor had he gone to an appointment with the Queen.

Richard concentrated, first hearing only Mary’s heartbeat; but as he moved it around, he finally caught the rapid pulse of the baby’s heartbeat; quick and fluttering almost, against the Queen’s own slow and steady heartbeat.

“Ah ha!” he said in triumph. He removed the instrument from his ears, handing it over to the King, whilst keeping his other hand in place with the metal face pressed against the Queen’s abdomen. They watched as the King’s eyes widened at the sound of his child’s heartbeat, chuckling at the almost comical look on his face.

“Oh…OH! Oh, May it’s…”

“It’s quite something, isn’t it,” she agreed, squeezing his hand, her smile almost splitting her face.

George finally bequeathed the stethoscope to his wife, turning to the doctor as she listened. “Is everything alright with the child.”

Richard nodded with certainty. “Oh yes, the child is in perfect health, and so is the Queen. As long as stress is kept to a minimum I’d say this should be a fairly smooth pregnancy.”

George smiled, kissing his wife’s temple at the good news.

Mary handed back the doctor’s stethoscope, thanking him as she did. Richard took it with a smile, placing it back in his bag.

“When do you expect the child will be due?” asked Mary, pulling down her chemise and smoothing it over her belly, her hand resting on its curve.

“Around the 9th of January I’d say, certainly early in the month anyhow.”

“Then prepare yourself for me to be absolutely wretched over Christmas,” Mary said turning to George, who shuddered, remember her past moods when she’d been heavily pregnant. Summer was probably the worst as no one felt comfortable in the sweltering heat as it was, nevermind pregnant. Christmas, however, ran a close second, as it meant she’d be in a foul mood for the entire holiday she otherwise loved so dearly.

“Think of the end result,” Richard said, shrugging on his jacket. He picked up his bag and hat and draped his overcoat over his arm. “Is there anything else you wish to ask me.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Richard inclined his head. “Very well, ma’am. Then I wish you both a good day.”

George stuck out his hand for the good doctor to shake, who was slightly taken aback by the honour. “Thank you, Doctor Clarkson.”

Richard shook the King’s hand. “Your Majesty.” Bowing his head, he turned and exited the room, feeling an immense relief on doing so. Hearing the laughter and joyous chatter behind him, he let out a long-held breath as he ambled back down the gallery. Honestly, he wasn’t sure how much more his nerves could take.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! This took a while to write (obviously lol ;))  
> Hopefully it make sup for the wait!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! This chapter gets steamy, so don't like, don't read. You have been warned!  
> Rating has changed accordingly!

Sunday 11th September 1927 8:30 am

_A SEVENTH PRINCE OR PRINCESS_

_LONDON, SEP 11 – The seventh child of HM King George and HM Queen Mary is expected within the second week of the early new year. It has been twenty-two years since the last child, Prince John was born to their royal Majesties. The nation sends its well wishes to the royal couple after the awful incident, and prays for the health of the Queen and her child._

_\------------_

The crackling of the newspaper as the pages were turned was the only sound to be heard over the breakfast table, excluding the occasional scrape of cutlery and the faint sound of chewing. The breakfast table this morning held only Robert and Dickie, their wives and Maud already having eaten and had joined the Queen outside. The two men were left on their own and were both, neither being particularly eager in conversation, were content to sit in silence.

The only break to the lull of the quiet was the entrance of the King into the dining room, who dismissed the half-hearted attempt to stand in respect with a half-hearted wave of his own. The content settled over the room again, the King filling his plate and joining the two gentlemen at the table.

At long last Robert folded his newspaper back up and placed it down on the table, with an exaggerated sigh that neither of his companions even registered. “The announcement came this morning; I believe congratulations are in order, Sir.”

“Indeed congratulations, Your Majesty.”

George grunted his thanks, keeping his eyes on his plate. In fact, none of the men had lifted their eyes once to make contact with either of their companions. The occasional question was put forth about the cricket or some similar matter, only to be met with answering grunts; for the most part silence endured. It was not uncomfortable, nor ill-mannered, for each gentlemen relished company in which he could quietly sit and read, or eat, or fish, or write, or quite simply sit. Some may determine it to be an unsociable experience but for these men, all quiet and brooding in nature, it was as bonding an experience as a gossip between their wives. Why at this point, they were practically the best of friends.

Second portions of food were acquired and duly eaten; the symphony of knives and forks continuing their tune. When the tea was drunk and eggs devoured, the trio rose from their seats and went to put on their tweeds for a walk, perhaps passing by their wives whom sat under the large tree in the garden before disappearing into the landscape for a few hours of little conversation and fresh air.

Such was a gentleman’s life and wasn’t it just splendid.

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Sunday 11th September 1927 10:30 pm

It had become something of a routine for the both of them. Thomas would be working on some household matter at his desk, of course whilst Mr Carson was serving for the evening; Richard would rap his knuckles on the door about seven, carrying some form of entertainment under his arm, be it letters or a book, and would sit himself on the sofa until Barrow had finished. Some nights it took hours before they even spoke a word between them, but Richard patiently waited, and would not speak until Thomas had placed the cap firmly back on the pen.

Fortunately, Thomas’ work hadn’t taken him very long at all, as this evening Richard had come with a line of conversation in mind. When the click on the pen was sounded, Richard took his cue to immediately shut his book; not that he was really reading it anyways.

“Thank God for that,” Barrow sighed, leaning back in his chair, spinning it a little. He’d replaced Carson’s old hard-wood, stationary chair for a swivel and it was probably the best thing he’d ever done. The look on old Carson’s face when he first saw it immediately made it worth the purchase a thousand times over.

Richard chuckled. “Long day?”

“Like you would not believe,” Thomas said without even opening his eyes, proceeding to spin full rotations.

Richard gently threw his book to the side, letting it bounce softly on the cushioned seat. “My Mother asked about you again.”

That peaked Barrow’s interest and he cracked one eye open slightly. “Oh?”

“Mhm,” Richard nodded, completely deadpan. He rose from his seat, meandering over to the desk, perching on the corner. He stopped Barrow’s chair with his foot. “She seems quite charmed by you. Must say I can’t understand it myself.”

“Oh, bugger off,” Thomas muttered, closing his eyes again, causing Richard to smirk.

“She keeps nagging me to bring you over to York again.”

“Well at least I’ve found a friend in your mother. I thought you a friend until you insulted me.”

Richard looked at him closely. “Is that what you’ve found in me, Mr Barrow? A friend?”

Thomas opened his eyes fully this time, to meet Richard’s intense gaze. His own gaze dropped briefly to Ellis’ lips, so quick that Richard almost missed it. Luckily, he didn’t.

The air crackled between them; Thomas felt butterflies come to life in his stomach in a way he never had before. It was all so new, and so wonderful. Barrow watched as Richard’s hand came up to gently cup his cheek, and the man slowly leaned towards him. Thomas let him eyes flutter close in anticipation of the gentile pressure of Ellis’ lips on his.

Finally. Oh finally; their lips brushed tenderly. Thomas reached his hand up to cup the back of Richard’s head, pulling him in closer, deepening the kiss. He moaned softly as he felt Richard respond. But alas, all good things must come to an end. And the end came in the form of a loud rapping on the door.

The two sprang apart, Richard practically leaping in full acrobatic style, back over to the sofa. Barrow straightened his jacket and tie and brushed his sleeves like one would had an animal shed hair all over them. He wasn’t sure why he did but he felt the compulsive need to.

“Come in,” he called.

Mrs Carson opened the door with a smiling face. “I just thought I’d warn you Mr Barrow, they’re finished upstairs so I think Mr Carson and the footmen will be coming down for the night.”

“Ah,” Barrow nodded, eagerly. “Thank you, Mrs Carson.”

Elsie smiled, hiding her bemusement, she hoped, quite well. She looked between Barrow’s upturned, rosy face, and Mr Ellis who was smiling at in the same slapstick-happy way. She knew at that moment she’d interrupted something. She cleared her throat awkwardly. “Well I'll say good night gentlemen.”

“Good night, Mrs Carson,” the two men responded jovially, in unison, you understand. Elsie bit back her giggle, and threw a wink at Barrow, signalling that she knew what was going on. Just to freak him out a little. She had to have her fun after all.

The two men grinned after her until the door shut behind the Scottish housekeeper, and they huffed a joint sigh of relief.

“Do you think she suspects?”

Thomas scoffs. “Definitely.”

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Sunday 11th September 1927 11:45 pm

There was nothing more George enjoyed doing than watching his wife.

Nothing specific; she could be writing a letter, eating, talking, reading. Anything at all, and he was transfixed by her.

It was the little things that really captivated him, like the way she chewed her lip when concentrating, or bit her nails when she worried; her little pet peeves like the way she couldn’t let anyone else touch her sewing for fear of them messing it up, and above all the way she laughed. Properly laughed. It wasn’t gracious or elegant, she really did make the strangest wheezing noise; but George loved it about her.

Tonight, however, he was watching her focus on a different task entirely. George was sure it was a mundane, perhaps even boring, spectacle to other men; but he was watching Mary brush her hair.

She’d dismissed her maid after changing, insisting that for once she could do her own hair. George had to admit it was one of the most magical moments of his life. Mary’s hair was extremely long, it reached near her lower back in the same golden curls she’d had since she was young. It was so long that she had to arch back slightly to reach it while she brushed before bringing round to the front to reach its ends. It afforded George the most wonderful view of her breasts, which we starting to get slightly larger again with the impending arrival of the baby. George would be lying if he said the view wasn’t affecting him in anyway, but he had to reign himself in before his thoughts went completely south.

“Like what you see?”

He hadn’t realised he was staring so blatantly, but if his wife’s smirk was any indication, she knew exactly what he was thinking about.

“And what if I do?”

Mary’s smirk widened, as she reached back to start plaiting her hair.

“Leave it down.”

Mary arched an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“But it’ll get so dreadfully tangled,” she complained, as George took her hand to pull her up from the vanity, walking her backwards towards the bed, his hands on her hips. She went with little protest.

“I’ll brush it for you myself in the morning,” George mumbled, tugging down one the straps of her nightgown, placing a kiss to her shoulder.

“Liar,” Mary muttered, winding her arms around his neck, enjoying the attention he was paying to her. George spun them around, so he sat on the bed, bringing her down to straddled him and forcing her to hike up her nightgown to do so.

“I swear I will,” he murmured, preoccupied with trailing kisses across her chest and up her neck, pausing to suck on the spot just below her ear that made her shiver.

“I don’t believe you,” Mary breathed, arching her neck to give him better access. “Mmm George.”

The second strap of her nightgown followed the first, as George pushed the garment down to her waist, revealing the glorious breasts he’d been staring at all night. He paid reverent attention to them, alternating between kissing, and sucking at the tender skin as his wife moaned and writhed in his lap, clutching at his head to bring him closer. Cool fingertips gave light touches that had her heated flesh break out in goosebumps. An inhuman noise escaped her as George took a nipple into his mouth; suckling the engorged flesh he felt his control wavering at the sounds Mary was making.

His grips on her hips, tight enough to leave bruises, had slackened as he moved his hands to grab her behind, bringing her even closer to him, both of them groaning at the feeling as he switched his attention to the other breast. Somehow he managed to move them up and onto the bed, his back now against the headboard, his wife straddling him as they forced his shirt up over his head, while he resumed his attention to her chest. Mary was now extremely aroused as she wrenched his wonderful mouth away from her breast up to her lips.

Despite their obvious arousal, George kissed her slowly, deeply. His tongue brushed hers, quick, electric, and delicious; then firmer, the kiss becoming rougher, more urgent, hungrier. The bristles of his beard scratched her soft cheeks as her fingers tightened in his hair. George growled lowly in his throat as his own hand made his way into her long locks, his fist tightening it into a bunch as he pulled lightly, Mary’s muffled moans sounding against his lips.

George wasted no time in pushing his wife’s nightgown all the way over her hips, smoothing his roughened hands over the soft flesh of her thighs and buttocks, enjoying the feeling of her grinding into him. He felt Mary’s hand snake down from his shoulders, over his chest and abdomen, to pull at the drawstrings holding his pyjamas up. George removed one hand from her hips to assist her, pushing the clothing down to tangle somewhere around his ankles, without breaking the kiss. Mary let out a guttural moan as she felt herself being filled up, breaking the kiss as she arched her back, George’s head thumping back against the headboard as he breathed slowly to maintain control of himself.

They locked eyes; the look they shared, unhindered, naked, raw. She placed a hand on his cheek, her nails scratching ever so slightly, her thumb grazing the soft contour of his mouth. His hands in turn mapped her silhouette, tracing the outline of her hips, her back, the rise of her ribcage; her skin prickling at his touch. He eyed her for a long moment, the tension leaving his body with every roll of her hips. The exquisite slope of her neck invited him to touch, to taste; her soft moans growing in pitch. He could smell the remnants of her perfume, taste the salt of her skin, his own skin starting to glisten with the sheen of sweat. His breath on her neck accompanied with mounting pleasure sent shivers straight down her spine, pooling in her abdomen as she felt her core tighten and her legs started to tremble.

Their movements were becoming hurried, somewhat frenzied as they raced towards their zenith. He caught her gasps and moans with his mouth, muffling their sounds. Threading her fingers through his hair she held him closer to her, biting down on his lip as she shuddered and jolted, dragging him into the abyss with her, crying out in ecstasy.

They remained a tangle of limbs, Mary twitching every so often in his lap, shuddering with each little movement he made. He grasped her shaking thighs, caressing them as he laid his head on her chest, listening to her furious heartbeat thud erratically against his ear. She kept her eyes closed, cheek resting on top of his head, her hands firmly gripping his back, nails digging in, bound to leave crescent shaped marks to complement the long claw marks lining his back. It took a while, though they finally caught their breath, firm and bruising grips easing into tender caresses and gentile kisses.

Mary was beginning to shift again slightly, George realised she was starting to get uncomfortable. There was only so long a person could remain in one position, especially if said person was six months pregnant; a fact George had temporarily forgotten for a minute or two. Helping her ease herself onto her back, he noticed her face contorting into a grimace.

George frowned. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

Mary shook her head, her face still scrunched in discomfort. “No just…” she hissed lightly. “My back’s in spasm.”

George’s frown deepened. “I’m sorry my darling I…”

“No, no, no,” she soothed. “You didn’t hurt me; I should have just been…” she gasped feeling another cramp in the muscle. “…more careful,” she finished through gritted teeth.

“What can I do?”

“Could you sit behind me and massage it out? I can’t lay on my front,” she said, gesturing to her baby bump.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he sympathised. He shifted so he was sat behind her, dressed only in his pinstripe drawstring pants, knees bent either side of her hips for her to use to prop her arms, helping her to lean forward. He pushed her nightgown further down, past her lower back from where it already lay, bunched at her waist. He gathered her hair, placing it over her shoulder to prevent it from obstructing him in his work, as it really was quite long, almost reaching the dimples in her lower back. She hissed at the first touch of pressure, finger digging into his calves. George kissed her shoulder in comfort, but kept his thumbs firmly pressed into her flesh, moving in slow circles near the base of her spine, pushing them up her lower back to the bottom of her ribs.

With every stroke he felt her relax further, until eventually she had melted into absolute bliss. He knew he’d have to stop, lest he wanted her falling asleep where she sat, so he gently pulled her nightgown back up, helping her slide her arms back through each strap. When she was once more fully clothed, he brought her closer to him, letting her lean back into him, kissing the top of her head.

“Feel better, my love?”

Mary nodded, humming contently in response, stretching languidly while her husband chuckled at her cat-like behaviour. “Ready for bed?”

This time Mary shook her head. George raised his eyebrow in surprise, expecting her to be practically nodding off at this point, like she did every night. “No?”

Mary shook her head again.

“Well, do you want to read? Make you sleepy?”

Again, another head shake in the negative. George was now fully perplexed. Mary shifted the position she was lying in, on his chest, turning her body so she was laying on her side, face upturned towards his. George only had to take once glance at her to know, realisation dawning on him immediately, it was his turn to shake his head, this time in exasperation. There was a particular look in her eye, he knew that look. He had become well acquainted with that look over the years.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Mary adopted the most innocent expression she could possibly muster as she nodded her ascent.

“May you ate dinner a little over two hours ago.”

“I know but I’m hungry again,” she scowled.

George sighed, knowing very well she wanted him to fetch her something. “Can’t you wait until morning? You may not be exhausted, but I am.”

She shook her head again, sticking out her bottom lip. Honestly, butter wouldn’t melt.

George sighed louder. “Can’t you wander down to the kitchen then, since you still seem to be wide awake.”

She pretended to ponder it for a second. “Fine,” she agreed. “But only if you come with me.”

George groaned, rolling his eyes, Mary bit back a chuckle. “Please,” she whined. “I don’t like going by myself at night,” she said, resting her chin on her hands and her hands on his chest, batting her eyes prettily. George huffed as they locked eyes, each refusing to budge, trying to stare each other into submission.

He cracked.

“Fine,” he grumbled, as she shot off the bed in glee, already wrapping herself in his robe and stuffing her feet into her slippers. “And what, pray, am I supposed to wear if you are in my robe?”

Mary shrugged, giggling. “That’s hardly my problem.”

George rolled his eyes so hard he almost sprained a muscle. He swung his legs out of bed, standing up and stalking across the room to his wife “I don’t think so, Miss May. You will wear your robe, I will wear mine, or you can go alone.”

“Fine,” she pouted, hoping to guilt trip him.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he shook his head. “That isn’t going to work this time; wear your own clothes woman!”

She scowled at him, as he laughed rambunctiously at her sulky expression. He linked their finger together, pulling her towards the door. Mary tried to hide her smile, carrying on the charade of being annoyed at him, but she couldn’t help leaning into him as they walked, squeezing his hand and grinning as he squeezed back.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Monday 12th September 12:00am

Mrs Patmore prided herself on being a woman who didn’t scare easily. She wasn’t one to be startled by loud noises, things that went bump in the night; she didn’t believe in ghosts or poltergeists, and she most certainly could swing a solid right-hook or two if called upon to do so.

That’s why this instance could be considered one of significant note and rarity, as Beryl Patmore was in fact, startled. And what situation should cause such an unwelcome occurrence you may ask?

Well, it was just gone midnight and Mrs Patmore could hear voices muttering in her kitchen and rummaging around her fridge. She shot up from her seat at Mrs Carson’s desk, who had kindly lent her the warmth and comfort of her office for her mountain of late-night paperwork, as the housekeeper and her husband occupied his old pantry.

‘Of course!’ she realised. “Get a grip, old girl,” she mumbled to herself, realising it must in fact be the married head-of-house duo. Still, no one raided that fridge without her permission and her mouth twitched into an evil smile at teaching them a well-deserved lesson.

So ever-so quietly she crept to the door of the sitting room, and slowly inched it open so it wouldn’t squeak. The murmurings grew louder without the barrier of the door blocking their pathway to the ears, as Mrs Patmore stealthily tiptoed towards the archway of the kitchen. A thud sounded, followed by a deep grumbling curse and a giggle, as something hit the floor.

‘Stealing my food, dropping it, AND cursing like a sailor?’ thought Mrs Patmore. ‘Charles Carson has one hell of a hiding coming to him.’

She positioned herself behind the wall, creeping her toe around the corner as the grumblings continued accompanied by a woman’s voice shushing him. ‘Elsie Carson, you little tea leaf!’ she thought. 

Beryl bounced on the balls of her feet, preparing herself to launch round the corner and scare the thieving couple. She sprang into action.

“GOT YOU!”

She was met by a small shriek and a “good god!” as the male accomplice went stumbling backwards, landing on his arse much to the amusement of the woman with him.

Except it wasn’t the Carsons.

It wasn’t the Carsons at all.

Mrs Patmore felt her face drain of all its colour, her eyes widen and her heart cease to beat. “Oh my God!” she cried, her hands flying to her mouth in horror.

The commotion drew the original suspects, Mr and Mrs Carson from the pantry, running to see the source of all the screaming. The sight that met them was one to behold.

For there, lying on the floor, looking quite terrified, was the King of England. And sat on the kitchen table, her slipper-clad feet dangling over the edge, laughing hysterically, was the Queen.

Charles’ eye grew wider than saucers and stood for a moment frozen in shock before he leapt into action, helping the King up from the floor. Elsie looked on in amusement. Beryl looked like she was going to be sick.

“Are you alright, your Majesty?” Charles rumbled, glaring daggers at poor Mrs Patmore who now looked just about ready to faint.

“Yes fine, fine,” he grunted, slightly winded from the force of the impact. Mary was now silently laughing, which she attempted, and failed, to hide behind her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. Elsie too had to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud. The butler and the cook were not amused in the slightest, the latter having woken from her shock and was now profusely apologising to George, curtsying with every other word which only served to make the other two women laugh harder. It’s a miracle she hadn’t dropped to the floor and kissed his feet. Charles was going redder and redder with every apology she made, mortified at the spectacle she was making.

George just looked totally bewildered.

“It’s quite alright, Mrs Patmore,” he assured her, not daring to question at why she’d done it in the first place, not that she was in any state to offer an explanation anyway.

Charles was getting extremely flustered now, making apologies of his own. “I am very sorry, sir. Most improper; quite unthinkable. If there’s anything we can do…”

“No, no,” the King declined graciously. “Quite alright, entirely our fault. We shouldn’t have been down here at this time, but _somebody_ ,” he glared at his wife, who was holding in her laughter best she could. “…decided she was hungry all of a sudden.”

“No,” Mary got out in between fits of giggles, pointing her finger at him. “You can’t blame this on me.” She dissolved into laughter again, dragging Elsie with her who dropped her face in her hands to hide from the outraged glower of her husband. 

George sighed, deciding to ignore her. “Anyway, we are terribly sorry for raiding your fridge Mrs Patmore, we do hope you can forgive us.”

She was only too happy to oblige. “Oh of course, sir, of course! If there’s anything I can make for you…”

Mary’s stomach interrupted them at that moment with quite a large gurgle, causing her to flush a light pink and giggle nervously. “I’m so sorry,” she squeaked, grasping her stomach as if it would stop the noises.

“Sounds like you’re still hungry,” commented Elsie, receiving a discreet and yet rather sharp elbow to the ribs from Mary.

“Is there anything you’d like in particular?” Mrs Patmore asked. “Ma’am,” she added quickly, earning another glare from the butler.

Mary thought for a moment, attempting to work through her many cravings to determine the one she wanted the most. The others watched her in silence as she chewed her lip in thought. “Perhaps something with chicken,” she asked, shyly. “I hate to be a nuisance…”

“Oh nonsense,” scoffed Elsie. “You’re no such thing! Now sit yourself down properly,” she ordered, helping the Queen gently down from the table and leading her to the sitting room. “We’ll sit here whilst Mrs Patmore gets your food, the fires going, we can’t have you freezing now!”

The two women were trailed after by the King and Mrs Patmore was finally left alone with Mr Carson. The woman cringed harder each second more they stood in silence. She was waiting for the tongue lashing she was inevitably going to receive. It was almost as if the world had turned to slow motion; she watched as the great big bear of a man turned himself slowly around to greet her with the most withering look she’d even experienced. She shook in fear, squeaking quietly before rushing away to the pantry to collect the Queen’s food; Carson merely watched her go, satisfied the message had been understood.

\--------

“Here we are, ma’am,” Mrs Patmore said, placing the large serving plate down on the sofa’s side table. It was filled with cold slices of chicken, ham, there was cheese and bread, and a few cherry tomatoes she knew Her Majesty was particularly fond of at the moment.

Mary beamed happily at the ginger cook. “Oh, thank you!” She dove straight in, attacking the chicken first as was her specified choice before moving onto the rest. George sat back and enjoyed the spectacle of his wife trying to consume her own bodyweight in food.

Elsie chuckled at her friend trying to satiate her cravings, not noticing her husband had walked back in carrying a decanter of sherry and a small glass. “Nightcap, sir?” he offered to the King.

“Ah yes! Thank you, Carson,” taking the proffered drink, he motioned for the man to sit. “Won’t you all join us?”

In no other life or scenario could Carson have imagined this moment; he himself, butler of Downton Abbey, his wife, the housekeeper; her best friend, the cook. Three lowly servants sat in a small sitting room with the King and Queen of England, sharing a nightcap. He only took the seat to save him the embarrassment of falling to the floor in a faint. His shock was soon overcome as the King turned to praise his wife.

“I must thank you, Mrs Carson, for being so king to my wife and I. Your support has meant a great deal…”

“And your present was most generous!” Mary added. “I know I’ve already thanked you, but it truly was wonderful.”

Elsie scoffed, ducking her head in modesty under all the praise whilst her husband puffed his chest like a peacock. “Oh it was an honour! And watching you enjoy your present was thanks enough,” she said to Mary, who smiled dazzlingly before resuming her enthusiastic munching. George smiled besotted with his wife, before his eye caught the view of the clock on the wall. “Goodness is it that late? Well we don’t want to keep you up all night when you have to be up a lot earlier than we do!”

“Certainly not!” Mary agreed, holding her hands out for George to pull her up from the chair, which he did placing a kiss on the crown of her head. “Goodnight, thank you all so much!”

The three senior staff stood and curtsied/bowed as the couple left the room hand in hand. No one spoke for a moment, the tension mounting until it became unbearable. Mrs Patmore was the first to break.

“Well, goodnight!” she cried, scurrying from the room, abandoning her paperwork and spectacles before Mr Carson could rend her limb from limb.

Elsie sniggered as Charles rounded on her. “How is this amusing to you?” he demanded.

“Oh Charlie, don’t be such a curmudgeon!” she scolded lightly, brushing a curl back from his forehead. “They were most understanding and I should say they need a laugh with that wretched man still on the loose!”

“Well I suppose,” Charles sighed. “But I didn’t like it one bit,” he stated firmly, turning and marching from the room, heading to the attic. Elsie kept a solemn expression until he was well out of sight, allowing herself a little giggle as she extinguished the fire and turned off the lights. It certainly was a most unexpected end to the day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you guys think!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!
> 
> Very quickly I'd just like to say a massive thank you to everyone who has followed this story through messages and comments and boosted my ego beyond all belief; you're all angels! 
> 
> This not the last chapter but I have all remaining chapters planned out so the end is in sight!  
> I'm floating out an idea of a sequel so please let me know if you'd be interested! (I'll say more about it closer to the finish)
> 
> Again HUGEEEEEE thankyou and hugs :) :) :) :) :)

Monday 28th November 1927 1:45 pm

All the best homes had libraries, or in any case, a decent selection of books. To any educator's mind, stories of any kind are essential to our very essence as human beings. Books are in themselves a form of freedom afforded to all; an entire world enclosed within an item one can hold in their very hands. It is perhaps why a library brings to any house who has them, a form of magic unfelt anywhere else. Rows after rows of elegantly curved spines lined the shelves, meticulously organised, all in various stages of wear and tear, dependent on how well the story was loved. The children of Downton in each generation adored the room as their parents and grandparents taught them about each and every book.

That stood as well for the quartet currently inhabiting Downton’s nursery, they loved books. Which is why they were removing them from the shelves to build a ‘castle’ as all the adults cringed at the sight as sticky fingers grasped at old and treasured volumes. Except David. David was helping with the décor and colour co-ordination of the volumes to give the castle a more 'homely' feel.

The library was crammed from wall to wall with people; never had such a large room felt so small and stuffy. The sofa seated four adults maximum on each with three perched on the cushioned ottoman. George and Robert had not been deserving of a seat on either and had been banished to the floor, consequently left as the involuntary participants in the children’s shenanigans.

The entourage of seated aristocrats consisted mostly of the female inhabitants and visitors of the house; Violet, Isobel, Edith, and Elizabeth on one sofa; Maud, Queen Mary, Cora, and Princess Mary on the other. Lady Mary sat on the ottoman with Prince Henry and Prince Bertie; the baby Elizabeth wobbling on her feet between adults, basking in the coos and baby-talk rained down upon her. Her interest was presently focused on her grandmother, tugging at her skirts in an effort to sit on her lap.

“Here, darling,” Cora reached down to pick up the tiny imp, seating her on her own lap so she could reach Mary. She immediately squirmed to sit with Mary, but Cora held tight, much to Elizabeth’s aversion. It wasn’t just that Mary was no longer allowed to lift or crouch, there wasn’t any physical room on her lap anymore. Entering her eighth month of pregnancy she was now rather large, sitting with two pillows propped up behind her lower back, offering some refuge for her aching spine.

As a compromise, Cora helped Lilibet balanced on her little feet between the two women, so she could grasp Mary’s necklaces and face.

“Hello sweetheart,” Mary cooed, pretending to nibble her tiny fingers much to the child’s delight, who erupted in giggles. Satisfied with her grandmother’s affections, the child toddled off to the next unsuspecting adult to demand their love and affection.

“Oh, my goodness! I nearly forgot!” Princess Mary suddenly exclaimed deafeningly, causing Maud to inhale her tea in alarm. All eyes turned to Princess who explained her outburst over the noise of the lady-in-waiting’s choking, whacking her on the back as she went. “We’ve decided to go ahead with the ball at Harewood!”

Gasps and mutterings of delight fluttered between the ladies, and eyebrows raised in indifference by the gentlemen. George’s eyebrow however was arched in disproval. It was just as intimidating when only his head was visible over the fortress of books he was encased in as it was when he was standing. “Oh? You have, have you?”

“Oh George, don’t be such a grump,” Mary tutted, placing her teacup back in its saucer.

“Oh, you don’t really mind, do you Papa?” Princess Mary asked, putting her mother’s training to work, mustering up the most adorable expression she could manage. George didn’t even spare himself the pretence and dignity of trying to resist. He rolled his eye good naturedly and shook his head. “No, I don’t mind,” he sighed.

Princess Mary clapped her hands in delight. “Wonderful!” she cried. “We were thinking the 22nd of December, making it more of a Christmas celebration instead! Of course, you’re all invited, children as well! Yes, including you!” she clucked at her niece, who had chosen the Princess Royal as her next target and was attempting to chew her pearls.

“Yes of course, quite wonderful. However, I’m sure you’ll excuse your mother and I if we don’t attend.”

It was Mary’s turn to arch her eyebrow intimidatingly. “Oh?”

George cleared his throat. “Yes, I think it best. You will only be a couple of weeks from giving birth.”

“And that makes me an invalid now does it?” Mary responded coolly. The atmosphere in the room had practically frosted it had turned so cold. Eyes looked everywhere but at the King and Queen, fingers fidgeted and fiddled in a poorly concealed effort to look busy. George stared resolutely at the board game he was playing with Sybbie and Marigold, neglecting to respond to his wife’s icy expression.

“And I don’t suppose I would be permitted to attend if I simply sat at the side and observed?” Mary asked, her words saccharinely sweet with an unmistakable bite to them. Even Lady Violet shifted uncomfortably at her tone.

“No, I don’t think so,” George stated firmly, only then raising his head, his expression unyielding. Mary ground her teeth together, venom pooling on the edge of her tongue, threatening to spit forth. However, she reigns in her temper, she would not have a row in front of everyone here. But she refused to give him the satisfaction of thinking he’d won.

And so, she placed her teacup on the side table, inhaling deeply before addressing Cora. “If you’ll excuse me Lady Grantham, I think I shall go lie down, I feel quite tired all of a sudden.”

“Certainly,” Cora smiled, trying to behave as if she had not just witnessed what amounted to a silent war declaration. She leapt to her feet, slipping one hand into Mary’s, the other under her bicep; whilst Mary grasped the sofa arm with her other hand, and between the two of them, they heaved Mary to her feet, in a surprisingly dignified way.

Holding her head high, Mary marched from the room in a manner that belied her feigned exhaustion and heavily pregnant state. George waited little more than a few minutes before following her. When the two had left no one knew quite what to say or how to diffuse the palpable tension. So, they sat/stood/laid awkwardly, listening to the children’s chatter, waiting in silent anticipation and dread for the news of the King’s demise at the mercy of his pregnant wife.

\-------------

The Queen stood, staring blankly out of the window, completely motionless. She hadn’t so much as twitched an eyelid. She focused solely on her breathing; in and out, preventing herself from shaking in anger at the scene that had just taken place.

She was seething; George would be lucky if he escaped from this room at all, as Mary was quite certain he was going to die by her own hand. And she was fairly certain he knew it.

She heard the tell-tale creak of someone reaching the top of the stairs, the thud of their boots as they advanced towards her bedroom. The handle turned and the door swung open, she didn’t need to turn to see who it was. She already knew.

She kept her visage to the window as the door was shut carefully, and even as he cleared his throat, she refused to face him, keeping her back to him. Her voice was calculated and cold as she spoke, the fury evident in its minute tremor.

“Why?” was simply all she asked. She listened to the shuffle of his feet as he awkwardly shifted from side to side, waiting for the real answer she knew she wouldn’t get. Eventually he sighed. “May…”

"I can't believe you did that," she whispered, as a whisper was about all she could manage.

"I'm concerned for your health, and besides you never appeared in public when you were close to giving birth with any of our other children."

"That's besides the point."

"Then what is the point?"

She spun around, the fire blazing in her eyes. “Why, George? Why did you have to do it? What the hell do you think gave you the right?”

At this the indignation swelled up in George’s chest, his hubris overcoming him. “The right? The _right_? I am your husband I have every right!”

“And being my husband means you have the right to control where I go? To control me?” Mary fumed, her voice rising towards a shout. George was just as equally starting to lose control, his face reddening, his voice ascending towards a roar.

“Yes it does! As my wife you will go where _I_ permit you! You are answerable in everything to _me_!”

Mary shook with anger. “How dare you,” she whispered, before repeating the same phrase in a scream. “HOW DARE YOU!”

“How dare _I_?!” George thundered. “Were you not there on our wedding day? Did you not promise to serve and obey me?? Do not forget the vows you took before God, May!”

Mary’s rage had reached its apex. “Get out!” she spat.

George stood before the fireplace, tall and rigid, his hands firmly clasped behind his back. His voice suddenly reverted to a chilling calm, a patronising edge to it that made Mary’s blood boil. “Calm yourself, May.”

“I am not a child!”

“You are carrying one,” he countered, in his disgustingly monotonous voice. How often she had heard it directed at her children. How often it had been directed at her. She was sick of it.

“A fact of which I am well aware,” she snapped. “It is the reason we are having this discussion is it not?”

“Precisely. And it is why you will not be attending the ball.”

Mary exhaled shakily, clenching her teeth together as she hissed through them. “I am going to that ball.”

“GOOD GOD WOMAN! MUST YOU BE SO DIFFICULT!” George’s hand swept across the mantelpiece. A Dresden girl, a small ormolu clock and a silver candlestick fly through the air, crashing to pieces on the marbled hearth. George sags slightly, his breath coming in gasps. Mary stands stock still once again before the window. They both stare down at the carnage.

“So that’s it. Am I forever bound to serve and obey a child?” The fire in the grate crackles and spits.

George rounds on her in fury. For a moment she wonders if he will strike her, his hand rising almost as if to do so. She can’t help it, she shrinks back in fear clutching her stomach, her face whiter than a sheet. George see this, his eyes widening in horror, realising what he had done. She has never been scared of him before.

He quickly drops his hand, and they stare at each other, both at a loss for words. He hadn’t meant it. Any of it, really. He was frightened. The man who had almost killed her was still out there, seven months later. She was only weeks away from giving birth and he grew more terrified with each passing day, with a fear that he couldn’t protect her. From Chetwood, or from the dangers of the birth itself. If she stayed at Downton, he could be relatively confident she was safe.

His heart broke at her fright, as she was now steadfastly refusing to meet his eyes. It shattered completely when he reached for her and she flinched away.

“I’d like you to leave,” she whispered, crossing her arms over her chest.

“May…” he tried; his voice tremulous with emotion.

“George, please leave,” she cried quietly, turning her body away from him, hiding her face in shame. “I won’t go to the ball, just please leave.”

Tears leaked from George’s eyes as he watched her curl in on herself, away from him. He took a tentative step forward. And then another when she didn’t react, until eventually he was right next to her. He encircled her with his arms and held her tight; initially she received his embrace stiffly, but ultimately collapsed in his arms, tears streaking down both their faces; Mary’s landing on his shirt, George’s in her hair. 

“I love you,” he whispered fervently against her temple, over and over again, Mary crying harder with every admission. Mary nodded from where her head rested against him, her arms gripping his tighter.

“I know you do,” she sobbed through her tears. “But I can’t bear to look at you right now, George. Please go.”

For a minute, he held her even tighter. Though hearing her wish, he slowly let her go. He couldn’t bare to leave her, but knew he had to, if only so she didn’t hate him. But before he went, he gently lifted her face with one finger under her chin, giving her a kiss to which she neither responded nor pulled away from. Her eyes remained closed, as if she were taking seriously her claim to be unable to stand the sight of him. They squeezed only tighter as she heard his shuddering breath as he held back yet more tears.

Reluctantly he pulled away, turning his back to her, moving towards the door. Just as he’d turned the handle he heard her soft voice call out to him. He turned to look at her. “I think you should stay in your dressing room tonight.”

He gave no response, simply opened the door and Mary listened to it shut quietly behind him. She immediately collapsed onto the edge of her bed, crying earnestly.

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Friday 2nd November 9:15am

The morning was brisk and fresh, the air like a tonic to the lungs, certainly to the King and Prince of Wales’ assemblage of chain-smoking lungs. The two were out on an early walk, enjoying the frost still present under the newly risen, weak sun.

The two were getting on much better, the younger finding his father much better company now he’d lightened the load of condemnation and critique. Superficially, the two still did not have much in common; being of two different generations one supposed it was only to be expected. So they took advantage of the things they both enjoyed and did them often. They’d ride and shoot, walk and chat. The only unspoken agreement: David would not speak of any dalliances he may have, keeping them to a minimum and of lesser scandal, and the King would simply not ask. It made for a very pleasant afternoon.

The topic this morning had shifted to the upcoming ball and the fact of his mother attending. George still felt guilt-ridden over the preceding episode and it was avoided as a topic of conversation, especially now that his wife was actually talking to him again.

In truth, the silence had only lasted until the early hours, when she had appeared in his dressing room where he was sleeping, as promised. She stood clad only in her nightgown, shivering in the sub-zero temperatures of the early winter; feet bare, her eyes puffy from crying and a fresh wave of tears still present on her cheeks.

Fortunately, George had not been asleep, tossing and turning himself, remorse holding sleep hostage from him. He had waited for her to speak first, unsure if even the slightest movement would send her running. She reminded him of a frightened animal, a deer perhaps; frozen still, on the verge of fleeing.

At last, she had whispered timidly, “I can’t remember the last time I slept without you when you were in the same house.”

No words needed, George had thrown back his bedcovers and she had gratefully climbed into them, sliding in with her back to him as he wrapped her arms around her. She nestled further into the bed, clearly freezing, and he bit back his cry of pain as the shock of her icy toes shot up his calves, between which she had stuck her feet to warm them.

He had pressed his face into her hair, muttering apologies. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my darling.”

“Shhh,” she pacified him, entwining their hands, pressing her cold lips to his fingers. “I know, love. I know.”

And so, husband and wife had slept snugly in the bed meant for only one, not two and a half. Woken only when his valet had rushed in to tell the King the Queen could not be found, and quickly left red-faced when he saw them lying together, much to their enjoyment.

That had been several days ago now, and the King had been torn about his decision ever since. David sought to set it right, stepping in on the behalf of his mother (unbeknownst to her of course). He couldn’t stay in his Papa’s good graces forever, it was a state he was most uncomfortable with, and there was no time like the present to reset the status quo.

“Papa,” he ventured, waiting until the grey-haired monarch had grunted a signal that he was listening. “Why don’t you let Mama attend the ball?” Before George could speak, he continued, in an effort to get his point across before the elder man started breathing fire and singed his eyebrows.

“She need not stay late, and I promise to make her rest frequently. She does so love balls, and I am worried about her.”

George looked up in alarm, wondering if there was something he had missed.

“She is most miserable about it, not to mention uncomfortable. She needs something to cheer her up! Come the new year, the child will prevent her from moving at all.”

George nodded silently. He knew this, of course he did. Surprised, David watched his father nod and agree to everything he’d said, so he pushed just a little harder.

“It’s only one night, Papa. Go on, give her something to smile about.”

George laughed lightly, turning to his eldest son, seeing just how much he had matured in recent months. He slapped him lightly on the back, letting him know that he’d taken it on board. The two carried on walking, conversation null. It was George who spoke first this time, broaching a sensitive subject of his own.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Somehow I feel like you’re going to no matter what I say.”

George stopped walking, causing David to rapidly halt his movements. His father wasn’t laughing at his joke, but he didn’t appear angry either; David suspected the question was more important than he’d originally thought.

“Of course you can,” David motioned encouragingly for his father to continue.

“Your mother and I have been discussing it a great deal, we’re both very proud at how you’ve grown in so little time.”

David felt pride swell in his chest at these words, but fought to keep the smile from his face, maintaining an expression that was _très au sérieux._

George cleared his throat. “How would you feel…about being Godfather to your youngest sibling?”

That David had certainly not expected, and he was sure his expression showed it, for George immediately reassured him that he need not accept if he did not want to, he and his mother would completely understand.

David snapped back to attention and interrupted his father’s speech. “I’d be delighted.” Internally however, he was beyond delighted, he was ecstatic. George nodded in approval, smiling proudly. “Good. Now my boy, I believe it’s high time we started discussing your colonial tour again. I’d say we start planning for around 8 months’ time. And I thought it a good idea if you were to take Lord Hexham with you.”

David nodded, but drew up one issue with his father. “I’m afraid I do not think Lord Hexham will be able to join.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Well he has confided in me that his wife is expecting their first child. I believe it is due to be born around the time you suggest.”

“Well that’s wonderful news!” He clearly wasn’t getting the picture.

“Indeed, but of course, I imagine he’ll want to be here with her. Much like you would with Mama.”

Realisation hit George. “Oh yes. Well, quite right. Quite right,” he mumbled, embarrassed that it took him so long to grasp. David drew no attention to it, the two simply resumed their walk, both entirely satisfaction with the morning’s outcomes so far.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday 2nd December 1927 2:00pm

Anna marched with purpose down the corridor of the servant’s hall, Lady Edith’s ballgown draped over her arm. She was, quite rightly, a woman on a mission, and there was one person she was intent on finding. That person was Miss Lawton.

Anna had stood and watched the marchioness twist and turn before the mirror, as if the movements would magically alter the huge dress to fit her significantly smaller frame. Anna was by no means a shabby dressmaker and had altered her fair share of garments. But this really took the biscuit.

It was a task of enormous (literally) proportions, and why was Anna was marching to find the Queen’s secondary ladies’ maid. The idea had come to her when Lady Edith had asked about her painted glass that had disappeared from the side of bed. Too often Anna had found or seen the woman in places she shouldn’t be, it could be no coincidence that the list of missing items in the house was growing ever longer by the hour.

She found her hidden in the boot room, bent over a pair of shoes she was meticulously polishing. Anna cleared her throat; the woman merely glanced up at her before resuming her task. Not even a courteous hello was spared.

“Well, I hope you’re having a well-earned rest Miss Lawton,” Anna said as she moved towards the table, so she was stood opposite the seamstress, Lady Edith’s dress still draped over her arm.

Miss Lawton snorted. “Hardly,” she replied haughtily. “A life in the royal household is not one of relaxation.”

Anna fought to retain her snappy reply. Ever since she’d arrived, the woman had grated on every last one of her nerves. Given the sheer volume of irritants Anna could name about the woman, she was sure it would fill a decent sized novel.

“And besides,” the maid continued, unbeknown to her that Anna had actually little interest in finding out the answer to what she had asked. “We must prepare for the event of the Queen actually attending the ball, should something be decided last minute.”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Later this evening, when I go up to help Lady Hexham, I want you to come with me, fit a new ball dress and sew it before the ball at Harewood.”

“Why on earth would I do that,” Miss Lawton asked incredulously. At Anna’s next words her hands ceased their movements.

“The box and cupid from the drawing room. The library paper knife. Lady Hexham’s painted glass.”

“Never took the glass,” she whispered.

“Then it must have been broken, like she said. But you took something from that room. What was it?”

“Patch box from the dressing table.”

“I’d like them all back please,” Anna said with a false sweetness.

The maid looked up defensively. “I cannot sew an extra dress with my workload. I’d be up for nights, when would I sleep?!”

“When you’ve finished it. And don’t think I won’t tell,” Anna threatened. “Queen’s dresser a thief. That’ll make headlines from here to Peru.”

She left Miss Lawton in dumbfounded silence, marching just as loudly back the way she came, for dramatic effect.

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Sunday 11th December 1927 4:45 am

The early morning showed no signs of the approaching dawn; a canopy of luminous stars remained materialised amongst the ocean of darkness. Some were dull, merely flickering into existence every now and then, but there was an adequate amount to illuminate the room.

George lie in bed wide awake; truthfully, a situation he had found himself in often recently. Ever since their fight over a week ago he had been wracked with guilt, knowing Mary couldn’t quite meet his gaze though she assured him she was no longer angry. She lay now cradled closed to his right side, her head propped on his shoulder, the length of her resting against him at a slight angle as her belly prevented her from curling into him. Her face itself relaxed into a picture of tranquility and serenity; she looked peaceful. The King traced her delicate features with one finger, brushing her lips, cheek, and running down the gorgeous line of her neck, winding his finger in the stray curl of her hair lying against it. George was loath to wake her, but he feared his conscience crippling him if he waited any longer.

“May,” he whispered, to no response. He tried a little louder. “May.”

Nothing.

He gently shook her with his arm, repeating her name in increasingly loud whispers, until he got an unhappy groan.

“May, darling.”

Mary moaned, reaching a hand up to rub her eyes. “George, wha…” she started, thoroughly confused and sleepy. She managed to open her eyes wide enough to see that it was still dark outside, to her extreme irritation. “What time is it,” she grumbled, her voice gravelly with sleep as she sank back down into the pillows.

“Quarter to five.”

“Oh for fu- what the hell did you wake me for?”

“To apologise.”

“Oh George,” she sighed, eyes closed, shifting to find a comfortable position. “You’ve already apologised so many times my love, I promise I’ve forgiven you.”

“Let me anyway, for my sake.”

“Go on then, husband,” she mumbled, nestling into his embrace. “Hit me with it at a quarter to five on a Sunday morning.”

“I want you to come to the ball.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” he said in a firm voice that made Mary open her eyes to him again in question.

“What’s brought this on,” she asked softly, stroking the skin visible from the undone first three buttons of his nightshirt.

“It’s been troubling me terribly, the way I acted, knowing I made you miserable because I couldn’t tell you what was really bothering me.”

Mary’s features crumpled, knowing that it meant he likely had lost sleep over it. As usual, of course, she was right on the money. She cupped his face, scratching gently at the hair by his temples. “Oh darling…”

“I’m terrified, May,” he confessed, his voice cracking. “There’s so much that could go wrong…”

“Hush, I’m here. We’re here,” she said rubbing her middle. “We’re both healthy as can be. Not too mention being spoiled terribly rotten.”

“It’s not just that.”

“You mean that horrible man?”

“Hm.”

Mary sighed, propping herself up on her arm, looking down at him. “I can’t say I’m not scared too, Georgie. I’m completely and utterly frightened at the prospect of not catching him. But,” She placed her hand over his on his chest. “I trust you. I trust you to keep us safe, you’ve done it wonderfully so far and I’m sure that protection can move anywhere we do.”

George smiled, placing a kiss to her knuckles. “So, to the ball we go.”

Mary fidgeted in excitement, exhaustion and sleep-deprivation temporarily forgotten. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never not had my Queen by my side.” 

Mary smiled brilliantly, peppering the face of the laughing King with kisses until he stilled her with a deep kiss of his own.

“Now,” he said, pulling away. “Sleep I think.”

Mary looked at him as if he had just told her to sprout wings and fly. “Are you mad?! I can’t sleep now! I only have eleven days to prepare!” She swung her swollen ankles out of bed, moving with such agility that belied her current state, though George had to stifle a laugh at her little waddle as he sank back into bed, content to watch her fuss and work until the day called them to rise fully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist a little angst, so a little angst is what you got


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! 
> 
> I'm so sorry it's been two weeks, but in my defence I was just feeling too lazy.  
> So here's a chapter that I hope will make up for the wait!  
> Let me know what you think :)

Monday 19th December 1927 2:45 pm

The rapid-fire clack of heels and the distressed jingle of keys signalled the march of the Downton Housekeeper. The household staff were well versed in Elsie’s moods, clinically assessed, based on the pitch her keys jingled at. The higher it was, the faster she walked, the worse her mood. And this was not a happy march.

Face like thunder, this particular march had Elsie striding down the gallery having just exited the Queen’s rooms. And my, oh my, wasn’t her Majesty on fine form this afternoon. She knew she didn’t mean it, but that reassurance hadn’t done much to lower Elsie’s blood pressure.

They had been trying on ball dresses for the impending party, all newly made to fit the Queen’s expanding form. There were an array of gorgeous fabrics and colours, ranging from tones of ice blue and angelic silvers to majestic crimsons and a gold one that Elsie had been particularly fond of.

Of course, Mary’s infamous hormones had chosen that moment to swing completely past the point of irrational, and she had alternated between shouting and crying, until eventually she had snapped at Elsie to leave her. Which Elsie did so gladly, for she thought neither God, nor her husband for that matter, would appreciate her unleashing her Scottish temper on the Queen Consort of England.

Hence, she marched. She marched straight into the King, having not paid attention to where she was stalking, ricocheting off his own broad chest. His arm shot out to catch her before she stumbled backwards, managing to right them both and avert disaster.

“Goodness,” she gasped. “I’m ever so sorry sir!”

George chuckled, “no harm done, we both seemed to be still in one piece”. The two shared a little laugh, Elsie looking to the floor in embarrassment. George took the brief moment she averted her gaze to study her properly. He knew she had been helping his wife with her dress and was now stomping away with a flushed face, and Elsie Carson was not one to fluster easily. He could only come to one conclusion.

“I could venture a guess and say my wife is not being cooperative?”

“That’s one way of saying it sir,” Elsie replied, diplomatically, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. They both knew what an understatement that was. “Though if I were you, I’d keep a wide berth of the room’s perimeter.”

“That bad?”

“Apparently it’s all your fault she’s in this position.”

“It was this morning as well,” George sighed, remembering his quick and rather miraculous escape earlier that day. “Looks like I must risk my neck yet again, with God as my witness.”

Elsie giggled as she watched him walk rather tentatively towards his wife’s room. She watched until he disappeared into the lion’s den and sent up a quick prayer for his health

\-------------

Mary huffed, throwing yet another garment to the side, desperately trying to fight off another fresh wave of tears. Nothing looked right; nothing felt right. She hated this part of pregnancy, with a passion. The point at which she was nearly at the end, but not quite. Her feet hurt, her ankles were swollen beyond belief, she hated her reduced mobility, and her emotions were so far out of control that her response to every single one was to scream or cry. Usually both.

Dressed only in her chemise and undergarments, she turned in front of the mirror, observing her reflection from all angles, wrinkling her nose in disgust. She ran her hands over her large stomach, sighing in defeat. She felt like a whale.

So preoccupied in her misery, she didn’t hear her husband enter the room and watch her lip tremble slightly under the pressure of stemmed tears. George cleared his throat gently, freezing where he stood as Mary turned her stony glare on him. Her lips were pursed, her hands on her hips; George would find the sight quite sexy if he weren’t afraid for his very life.

“This is all your fault,” she hissed, jabbing her finger in his direction.

“So I’ve been told.”

Mary glared at him for a few tense seconds before spinning back round to sift through the many dresses that now lay scattered on every available surface, including the floor. “Nothing looks right, everything just makes me look fat!”

“You’re not fat, May,” George soothed, daring to take a step closer.

“Yes I am,” she spat, giving up the hunt for a dress and throwing them back down to the floor. She felt rather than saw George sneak up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, cradling her stomach in his hands, placing a kiss to her temple. “You’re not fat,” he spoke against her hair. “You’re beautiful.”

Mary scoffed, trying to wriggle out of his arms. But he held tight, and eventually she stopped struggling and relaxed against his chest.

“Now, young lady, you’re going to listen to me alright?”

Mary nodded, biting back a smile, entwining her fingers with his.

“You. Are. Beautiful,” he punctuated each word with a kiss, making her giggle as his whiskers tickled her skin. “You are my gorgeous,” kiss. “Stunning,” kiss. “Ravishing, pregnant wife,” kiss. “Who will look sensational in whatever she wears to the ball.”

Mary fought to keep a mock serious expression as she asked, “ravishing?”

George’s mouth twitched up into a smirk, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Mmhmm.”

“Flatterer.”

“I speak only the truth,” he said tickling Mary’s sides as she giggled and squirmed.

“Now,” he said, once she’d calmed down. “The dress. Can I help?”

Mary shoulder’s sagged. “None of them look right.”

“Then I’ll buy you twenty more. But,” he reached for a sparkling gold number. “I am fond of this one. Try it on for me?”

Mary sighed. “Very well,” she said taking the dress. “But you’ll have to help me fasten it.”

“I shall do it gladly.”

After a good ten minutes of struggling, George had successfully fastened the back of his wife’s dress and she stood once again before the mirror.

“Beautiful,” George muttered, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “You’re beautiful.” He got in answer a huff from his wife and a hard kick to his hand. “See, baby agrees with me.”

“You’re both biased.”

“No such thing,” George affronted. “You’ll be the envy of everyone there.”

That made Mary laugh. “Doubtful. But I’ll wear it if it’ll make you happy.”

George hummed in approval, deciding now would be an appropriate time to venture an attempt at a discussion of her moods. “Should I call Mrs Carson back so she can help you take it off?”

Mary sighed, knowing she’d behaved like a complete arse. “I’m not sure she’ll want to speak to me at present,” she muttered.

“She knows you don’t mean it, darling,” George soothed. “But I’m sure an apology would be appreciated nonetheless.”

Mary nodded, conceding his point. “Call her back. And you had better make yourself scarce.”

George quirked his eyebrow, biting back a smile. “Yes ma’am.”

That earned him a light slap to the chest. But he didn’t mind, not really. As he left the room, he did so with a smile, knowing he’d successfully righted his wife’s hormonal imbalance for the time being.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tuesday 20th December 1927 6:15 am

The servant’s hall breakfast had a rather cheerful atmosphere to it, especially for such an early hour. Usually people were barely holding themselves up from falling face first in their porridge or cup of tea. However, this morning it seemed the Christmas spirit had affected one and all. Even Mr Carson could be hear whistling a Christmas tune now and then.

But the table was crammed with people, packed like sardines and enough festive cheer to go round twice over. Thomas and Richard were among those clustered at the table, squeezed in shoulder to shoulder, chatting merrily.

Subtly, Richard leaned his head closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I got a letter from my mother this morning.”

Thomas inclined his head in response, though carried on eating his porridge.

“She asks if we’d like to join her for a Christmas dinner.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows in surprise, a pleased surprise. He had made a good impression on the woman after all. “She did?”

Richard smiled, sipping his tea. “Of course,” he said, placing his cup back in its saucer. “She adores you, you know. Your letters are fast becoming preferred over mine.”

Thomas scoffed. “Somehow I doubt that.”

Richard shook his head adamantly. “It’s true I swear! Every letter I get it’s a ‘I would love another letter from Thomas’ or ‘Is Thomas writing to me this week?’. Honestly!”

Richard’s imitation of his mother’s accent had Thomas in silent stitches as for someone who had grown up in Yorkshire and had a Yorkshire accent of his own, it sounded nothing like one.

“We can pick the date.” Richard said.

“When do you suggest?”

“Thursday? When they are at the ball?”

“Sounds reasonable. Since the actual Christmas dates would be completely out of the question.”

“So…should I tell her you’ll come?” Richard asked hopefully.

“Wouldn’t dream of missing it for the world,” Thomas smiled.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday 22nd December 1927 8:30 pm

Harewood’s ballroom was a beautiful room by anyone’s standards; it’s cream and bronzed marble gave a subtle elegance to an already impressive statement. But, bedecked and jewelled in glamorous festivity, the room reached a new height of beauty that even the most critical could not deny. Two magnificent twelve-foot trees stood at one end of the hall, opposite the door, so one might be blessed with the sight upon entrance. They were adorned in lavish silver and gold decorations, the gilded delicacies glittering brilliantly in the warm light. The King and Queen, as guests of honour, were first to enter the room and looked on approvingly; their daughter had quite outdone herself.

A slow dance was picked to open the ball, as many were conscious that the Queen, due in only eighteen days. The Queen had been advised by Doctor Clarkson that quick and strenuous dancing was to be avoided at all costs, with a break after every dance she partook in. They had actually brought the man with them, merely as an extra precaution of course. They needn’t have worried, as Mary engaged in sparingly few dances throughout the night, limiting herself to a few waltz’. Her partners rotated between George, her four sons and George Lascelles, each time staying in the centre of the spiral, minimising her movements.

Now, she sat cheerfully admiring the twinkling lights and the dancing, humming along, and swaying to the music. George sat next to her on the sofa, her hand clasped in his as he too surveyed the party. George turned to look at his beautiful wife, her serenity and bliss infectious, he couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on his face just watching her.

Feeling his eyes on her, Mary tore her eyes away from the dancing, responding with a smile of her own that widened as he lifted her hand to place a kiss to the back of it.

“Are you happy, darling?” he asked.

If it were possible, he swore Mary’s smile brightened.

“Completely,” she answered.

“May I have this dance?”

Both looked up to see David, hand out-stretched, smiling his dazzling smile. His blonde hair was mildly combed back, held in place with a little pomade, and he was dressed in his breeches. He looked rather handsome.

Mary smirked. “You may,” she said, slipping her hand into his, letting him half-pull, half-drag her out of her seat to the dancefloor where the beginnings of Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the flowers from the Nutcracker sounded out.

“Oh, I love this song,” Mary gushed.

David grinned, pleased that she was happy. “I know, I asked them to play it.”

Mary gasped in delight. “You did?”

“Of course, I know it’s your favourite ballet.”

“Oh David, thank you.”

She kissed his cheek in thanks as they continued waltzing. He noticed halfway through the song her movements were becoming slower and she was looking a little flushed. Though she tried to hide it, he saw her wince ever so slightly.

“How are you feeling, Mama?” he asked concerned.

“I’m fine darling.”

“We’re not tiring you are we?”

“No, no,” Mary shook her head. “It’s just a little hot and I’ve got a slight pinch in my back. I probably shouldn’t have danced so much tonight”

“I could take you out for some air?” David offered, steering them to the edge until he could manoeuvre her safely off the dancefloor.

“Actually, that would be wonderful darling,” she replied, fanning herself slightly.

“Of course, I’ll just get your wrap and tell Papa where we’ve gone. Wait here.”

She watched him slip through the crowd as she continued to fan herself with her hand, until a passing lady offered her a fan, which she gladly took. While she waited for David, she noticed something interesting out of the corner of her eye. Turning to fully look, she watched Tom Branson kiss the hand of Miss Lucy Smith before she left the room and he made his way over to Maud, giving her the handkerchief Lucy had obviously brought for her. Mary smiled, she thought it was a smart pairing; from her chats with them both over the last several months, she could see they were well suited. She winced again as another sharp pinch in her lower back made itself known.

She hadn’t a moment more to dwell on it, when she felt David drape her shawl over her shoulders. She smiled gratefully at him as he led her from the hall to the door that opened to Harewood’s magnificent gardens. Once they had completed the long arduous task of getting Mary down three flights of stone stairs, they were able to commence their leisurely stroll through hedged maze. Mary had her arm linked through David’s and he in turn drew her closer to his side to protect her from the chill. They walked in silence; the crunch of their shoes on the gravel, and that of the guards following, were the only sounds accompanying them.

A snap of a twig in the surrounding forest-line caught David’s attention, his eyes searching the darkness for the source of the noise. He narrowed his eyes when he caught a glimpse of movement.

“What is it, darling?” Mary asked, noticing his distraction.

“I thought I saw something.”

“It’s probably just a deer.”

“Yes probably.” Though he wasn’t convinced in the slightest.

The garden’s paths were lit by torchlight from the stands that lined its perimeter, though the extra flame did little to fight the chill of the mid-winter evening. David felt his mother shiver slightly against his arm, remembering that she only had a thin wrap with her after all, not her thick fur coat that she arrived in.

“We should probably head back,” he ventured, still not comfortable in dismissing any danger. Mary nodded as she held onto David’s arm a little tighter, her discomfort at being out in the dark more prevalent now. They turned their backs to the edge of the woods, intent on returning to the party when a noise sounded out that made their blood run cold.

The unmistakable click of a service revolver echoed through the quietness of the night. “Well, well. What do we have here?”

Out of the shadows came a figure that had haunted Mary’s dreams for months. The inky blackness gave way to the torch’s illumination to reveal none other than Major Chetwood.

Mary’s hands now had a bruising grip on David’s arm, her face whiter than the snow on the ground. David drew his mother slowly behind him.

“What do you want?” He asked in a steely voice that betrayed his fear. The major tutted mockingly.

“I would’ve thought you’d worked that one out. Step aside, David, and no one else has to get hurt.”

David stepped further in front of Mary, shielding her completely from the Major’s view. “No.”

“Step. Aside.”

“You’re mad. You’re completely…”

BANG.

Mary watched in horror as her eldest son crumpled to the floor, gripping his right shoulder. “No!” she cried, reaching for him as he fell, only to feel two strong arms hold her up. Her heart froze in her chest as she felt the cold barrel of the gun press against her throat, the Major’s vile breath against her ear.

“Get back,” he hissed at the two guards who held up their own pistols, aiming straight at them. “BACK!” he shouted. “Or she dies.” He clicked back the safety of the gun to emphasise his point.

The two guards slowly lowered their guns, holding up their hands in surrender.

“Now Mary,” he said against her ear, as she struggled against him. “We’re taking a little trip, you and I.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she spat.

“Oh yes you are.” He wrenched the tiara from her head, dropping it to the floor as he began dragging her backwards. “Don’t need any extra weight holding us back. We’ve already got enough as it is,” he taunted, pressing the barrel to her stomach. Mary froze in fear, and he must’ve felt her struggling lessen at the threat as he added. “Co-operate. Or your child dies here and now. Do you understand?”

Mary nodded fearfully, her breathing becoming shallower and faster.

Satisfied, Chetwood turned his attention back to the guards. “Give my regards to the King.”

And with that, he and the Queen disappeared further into the maze. A groan sounded from the Prince as he regained consciousness. The two guards hurried to him, helping him stand. The pain was unbearable and David though he might be sick. “Let’s get him back to the King,” he heard one of them say.

“No you go,” the other voice replied. “I’m going after the Queen. Get a search party out to follow me.”

That was the last David heard as he succumbed to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *evil laughter*


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet, but hopefully worth the wait!

Thursday 22nd December 1927 10:15 pm

The thudding of each gallop in the horse’s stride echoed in Mary’s ears, keeping in time with her heartbeat, drowning out all other sound around her. Her throat constricted tighter and tighter the further they travelled, with the acidity of the sickness lurking there. The acrid stench of her captors sweat-drenched and un-bathed skin permeated her senses. Panic had almost completely consumed her, beginning as a blossoming in her stomach, reaching its icy fingers to claw around her heart. She could scarcely breathe.

She was shivering violently now, the fear and the cold making her tremble, and the man behind on the horse, providing very little body heat himself and neglected to give her his coat. She tried to stem her winces at the sharp pains that stabbed through her back, as to not alert Chetwood to her weakness.

They had been riding for at least 30 minutes she guessed: when suddenly he drew the horse to a halt, leaping down and dragging her down with him. Miraculously she landed on her feet but gasped in pain as she stumbled, her ankle twisting awkwardly under her.

“Careful” Chetwood hissed, hauling her upright, ignoring her grimace as he did so. He led her deeper into the woods, roughly shoving her forward if she slowed her pace slightly to give respite to her twisted ankle. Eventually they arrived at what at first appeared nothing more than a large shadow in the darkness. As they advanced further, without torchlight, their eyes already adjusted to the darkness, Mary saw it was a small wooden cabin. Derelict and filthy, it blended in perfectly to the surrounding forest.

When they got much closer, Chetwood reached his arm in front of Mary, pushing against the wood with a small grunt until it swung open. Immediately the smell of damp and rotten wood permeated Mary’s senses, making her gag at the smell, her hand shooting up to cover her mouth.

“In.”

He didn’t wait for her to move before propelling her forwards with a sharp shove. It smelt worse inside and it took all of Mary’s strength not to lose the contents of her stomach on the floor. He pushed her into the furthest corner of the room, causing her to collapse on the floor. She immediately scrambled away from him, wedging herself as far into the corner as she could go. It offering a small, yet non-existent form of protection and refuge. Her actions elicited a menacing smirk from him as he looked down his nose at her.

“Look at you,” he crooned. “The high and mighty Queen Mary, trembling in fear at my feet in the dirt and grime. If only the country could see you now. Pathetic,” he sneered, kicking the dirt from the ground into her face, making her cough and splutter a little.

He sniffed in distain but spoke no more, turning his back to her.

“My husband will come for me.”

The last bit of courage burst free, making the major stop dead in his tracks. Finally, Mary thought, she’d made him realise the gravity of it. There wouldn’t be a single soul not out looking for her. He’d be easily overpowered. Her fleeting moment of hope faded when the major slowly turned back round to face her, his pistol raised, finger on the trigger. But what he said was what made her blood run cold.

“Oh, I know he will. That’s what I’m counting on.”

His words sent a stab of realisation through her, and she couldn't stop herself from retching on the floor. 

She wasn’t just the victim.

She was also the bait.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday 22nd December 1927 10:30 pm

The house was in desperate turmoil. George had just been beginning to silently wonder where his wife had got to when the doors had flung themselves open to the cries of shock and alarm from everyone present. Through them had stumbled one of his detectives, supporting the dead-weight of David, carrying him over his shoulder. George froze in horror, before snapping into action and rushing towards his eldest son.

“I need a doctor!” The detective had shouted, causing the entire ballroom to fall deathly silent. He lay the Prince down as gently as he could on an empty table that had been quickly swept clear. Doctor Clarkson had swiftly made his way through the crowd and reached David at the exact moment the king did.

“What happened?” Richard demanded, though he was already zoned in on David’s wound, removing his jacket and shirt to better access his shoulder.

“He was shot sir,” the detective panted, clearly exhausted from having carried the young man the length of the garden. “But the Queen…”

George’s heart stuttered at the man’s tone. “What?! Where is my wife?”

“She’s been kidnapped sir.”

Muffled gasps and cries resonated throughout the room.

“What?” George whispered. “By…by whom?”

“The same man that shot the Prince, sir.”

“DAMN IT MAN, WHO WAS IT??” George roared.

“Major Chetwood, sir.” 

Little time had passed between that announcement and the rapid formation of two rather large search parties. Once Dr Clarkson and Lady Merton had stabilised the Prince, fortunately the bullet hadn’t penetrated any major arteries, they were divided between the two parties as the only ones with advanced medical knowledge to attend to the queen, covering whichever party should find her first. Coats were donned, dogs were summoned, and searchlights were procured; before the gathering set off through the garden by the direction of the detective who saw the major flee.

Princess Mary stuck close to her father, as much for her own comfort as to comfort him, clasping his hand firmly and striding to keep up with his furious pace.

“She’ll be alright you know, Papa,” she whispered.

George turned his face to his daughter at her words, his features clearly displaying his anxiety and distress.

“I know she will...by God I know,” his lower lip trembled slightly as he spoke. “She’s the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”

“Well then.”

“But he hurt her once Mary, and I’m terrified he’ll hurt her again.” His tears were flowing freely now, his daughter also weeping in earnest. If possible they clung even tighter to each other, following the crowd of rescuers searching to find their Queen.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday 23rd December 1927 3:30 am

She had been sat here for hours, frozen to the core, with only her thin wrap to fend off the cold. Her fingers were numb, her teeth were chattering furiously, and she wasn’t entirely sure she had any toes left. The major had more or less left her alone during that time, occasionally turning back to taunt her, but for most of the time he sat in the entryway of the hut, keeping a watchful eye out.

The damp had stopped smelling so repulsive, or at least she’d stopped noticing it. Her dress was filthy, mud and god only knew what else matted to the fabric. The filth was embedded under her fingernails and stained her palms.

The twinge in her back had gotten progressively worse during that time, but it didn’t bother her often enough for her to be too distressed. When it did happen, she managed to struggle to her feet and pace until it passed, the upright position helping to ease it slightly. Pace was probably too optimistic a word, as her ankle still ached something terrible, so it was more of a hobble.

That explained her current predicament now, moving back and forth across the small 3 metre space, her mud-stained hand kneading at the muscle. She sighed in relief as this particular one finally passed, and she hobbled back to the corner to sink down in the dirt for a rest.

But no sooner did she reached the corner, which was not a considerable distance in the first place, did a deeper pain shoot through her back and rip straight across her abdomen, causing her to brace her hand on the wall, letting out a gasp of pain, cradling her stomach in her free hand. She was a mother of six, she knew exactly what this meant.

“No, no, no, no, no,” she muttered desperately. “Please, my darling, not now.”

However, the child didn’t seem inclined to listen to her, as no sooner had she uttered those words, she felt a sudden gush of fluid rush down her legs, soaking her shoes even further.

“Oh God,” Mary whimpered, one of her shaking hands coming up to cover her mouth, whilst the other remained on her belly. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she muffled her sobs, desperate not to attract the attention of her kidnapper, certain that he would somehow use this to her advantage.

“Please George,” she prayed silently. “Please hurry, I beg you.” She slumped down in the corner once again, shaking with the force of her tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'll cut you all down from the suspense soon :))))))
> 
> Also if anyone's got any suggestions for baby names, please let me know!! xxx


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!   
> Let me know what you think
> 
> (and plsssssss don't hate me)

Friday 23rd December 1927 10:40 am

The piercing air whipped and whistled around everyone’s ears, causing the skin to sting and tingle. Not a single soul wasn’t chilled to the marrow, their limbs now stiff and benumbed with cold. The temperature was touching on freezing if it was not so already. Princess Mary jogged a little to warm herself but all to no purpose, the ground was laden with a blanket so thick one never actually trod on the ground, the cover compacted with further snowfall. The branches of the trees bowed under the heavy weight of snow they carried; too apt a metaphor if you asked her.

Despite the desperate and tense situation, Mary found the urge to make a snowball, or to lay on the floor and make a snow angel, all consuming. The air smells pure and fresh. Everything seems quieter, almost muffled; there was a sense of serenity in its atmosphere.

Her mother had loved this season. _Does_ love this season, she corrected herself. Loved the crisp, fresh footprints one made, the gentle snowflakes that tickled her nose, the kind that she had taught her children to catch on their tongues and taste. The days when they were younger. The days her mother laughed more, played more, safe in their little cottage on the Norfolk estate, away from the eyes of the world. The days before the weight of a monarchy rested on her parent’s shoulders.

The bittersweet childhood memories brought Mary tumbling back down to earth, almost literally, her foot getting caught in an errantly raised tree root. George reached out to steady her, pulling her against his side. Mary pressed close, her cheek coming into contact with her father’s snow-dusted coat, shivering slightly in his comforting embrace.

“You should go back and rest, sweetheart,” he sighed, brushing her cheek. “You are exhausted, and your mother would kill me if I let you freeze out here.”

Mary’s eyes brimmed with tears, knowing her father was hurting just as much, if not more than she was. He loved her mother with every fibre of himself; not to say he loved his children less, but Mama was the other half of him, body and soul. It spoke volumes of his care for his children that his first thought would be her health in such a situation, when in reality she knew her mother consumed his thoughts. The snow was causing it to be more difficult to walk, and the dogs were having trouble finding a scent to match, knowing full well it lay beneath layers of snow. It meant they’d probably have to search for her entirely visually, searching under every nook and cranny, lengthening the time she was outside freezing in the cold. With that additional worry mounted on the King, she knew that he himself would not rest, and Mary was determined not to leave him alone in this. Not even for a second.

She took his hand from her cheek, grasping it firmly between her own, kissing his gloved knuckles.

“No Papa,” she said, softly. “I’m not leaving till we find her. And that is final,” she added when she saw him open his mouth to protest.

He laughed lightly, knowing there was no point in arguing. “Too like your mother,” he muttered in false exasperation. “Stubborn.”

“Strong,” Mary corrected, tightening her grip. “And a little stubborn too,” she admitted, drawing a small chuckle from her father.

“That you are,” he shook his head fondly.

Mary smiled brightly for a second, looking like the young girl who had once run circles around him and played practical jokes on him with her brothers, before stress once more etched her features. “We will find her, Papa,” she promised vehemently.

George kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I know we will, chick. I know.”

They recommenced their trudging pace, picking it up slightly to reach the party that was now well ahead of them. The group had clustered in what looked like a small clearing, but as Mary and George closed in, they saw it was in fact a road, though the layer of snow made it harder to differentiate.

They were all peering to their right as a small black object trundled into view, it was moving at a fair pace despite the treacherous ground.

“What the…?” Mary muttered, squinting against the flurry of snow descending. Suddenly an almighty blare of noise sounded, alerting the party to the fact that the object was a car.

“Out in this weather?” Mary asked incredulously turning to her father, who merely shrugged, just as perplexed as she was. The vehicle steadily advanced, reaching them only a couple of minutes later.

The doors flung open wide to reveal Mr and Mrs Carson, Mrs Patmore, Daisy, Andy, Mr Moseley, Miss Baxter, Miss Lawton, Mr Ellis, Mr Barrow, Mr Bates, and Anna. Mary raised her eyebrows in surprise. “That’s a deceptively large car,” she quipped as she extended her hand to help the ginger-haired cook down from the car.

“We got the telegram this morning, sir,” Mrs Carson wasted no time with pleasantries, explaining why exactly they were all driving through the thick snow instead of remaining in the refuge of Downton, half an hour by car in fair weather. “We all volunteered to help search, and Mrs Patmore insisted on feeding the troops, since you’ve all been out all night. We’ve got food, warm drinks, as well as coats and suitable footwear. You’ll need to be fully geared if you’ve any chance.”

Mary could’ve cried with relief. Her feet were frozen, and her stomach was far past protesting, now revolting violently against her. Clearly her father felt the same as she vaguely heard him say “you’re a saint, Mrs Carson.”

Suitably fed and layered, the group, plus its newly recruited members were preparing to set off when suddenly the hounds started barking.

“Your Majesty!” one of the detectives called over the din. “They’ve caught a scent! There’s still a trail”

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Friday 23rd December 1927 7:45pm

Waking could certainly be harsh, especially when your dreams were far better than your reality. When Mary roused from her heavy slumber, she was first aware of the coolness of the air and the lumpiness of the ground she was laid on. Her clothes felt damp, her eyes fluttering to meet the gloaming, the gentle subtleness of the sunlight coaxing her awake, and for a brief moment she half-wonders if she’s still dreaming. Until with a start she remembers what has happened.

It takes a mere second to shed the sleep from her brain. No sleepiness, no slow blissful waking remains. Within seconds of her realising, she’s bolt upright, eyes wide, her dreams not only forgotten, but completely erased.

Apart from her gasping breath, there’s little noise to be heard. Mary attempted to peer out of the fogged and filthy glass that constituted as the only window of the hut. She could feel the frigid air, seep into her bones, causing her to violently shiver, her wrap doing nothing to fend off the cold.

She exhaled and watched her breath turn the cold evening air white, watching it swirl and fade as it ascended. The simplicity of the act calmed her, allowed her a moments respite from her situation. A moment snatched all too soon.

Mary let out a sharp gasp she quickly stifled by biting her lip. Her hands flew to her contracting stomach as she exhaled through the pain. This was significantly worse than last night; she had obviously progressed much further during her sleep. Which she had managed to do sometime near the dawn and the cold had obviously kept her under as it was quite clearly the next evening.

When it finally eased she braced her hands on the wall in front of her, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet to try and ease the weight the baby now had on her hips.

She paced her way back and forth, for how long she didn’t know, but the light had now long faded away. Judging best she could by how long she’d been in darkness, she guessed it was once again somewhere in the small hours of the morning. That meant it was now Christmas Eve. That meant she’d been missing for well over 24 hours.

Another contraction rippled through her as she paced. They were very steadily getting closer but were still much the same distance apart as they were before she slept, only growing slightly more painful.

“Please hold on, my darling,” she whispered, caressing her belly. “We need to wait for your father to get here.”

She blinked rapidly to stem her tears. “I will not let your first sight on this earth be here.”

“Well, isn’t that touching.”

Mary gasped, looking round to find the major leaning against the splintered door frame. She stumbled further into the corner, her back colliding lightly with the rotten wood. Chetwood leisurely pushed himself off the frame, advancing towards her step by menacing step.

“Not to worry, Mary,” he simpered mockingly. He reached out a hand to her face, stroking her cheek with his index finger, taking pleasure in her flinch, his grin widening hideously. “Your beloved husband will be here soon. Though I don’t plan on letting him be around to see his youngest child.”

“You’re repulsive,” Mary spat, her eyes and nostrils flaring. “You’re a vile, weak, despicable man who deserves to burn in hell for the rest of your days.”

Chetwood’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Careful your Majesty, you’re treading dangerously. Don’t be stupid.”

Mary laughed at that, the severity of the situation sending her adrenaline levels soaring, eradicating her fears but for a moment. “I should think you’re the one behaving stupidly! How on earth did you think you could get away with this? Or are you just that delusional that…”

Mary never got to finish her sentence, as a loud crack resounded through the damp hut. Chetwood had struck her face with a backhanded strike. It took Mary a moment to register it, but once she did, the sting of it made her eyes water. She turned back to the major, glaring defiantly, her hand cradling her reddening cheek. She opened her mouth to retort when another contraction shot through her.

This was the strongest yet, momentarily rendering her speechless as she cried out in pain. A look of utter confusion crossed the Major’s features before realisation came. The look that followed was far more perverted and sinical.

“Oh…OH. Oh, this is just too perfect,” he said, gleefully. He began to laugh manically, the noise making Mary’s fear escalate. “A pregnant wife is one thing. But the urgency of impending birth? You’ve just increased your value.”

“You’re sick,” Mary hissed through her teeth, grimacing though her contraction.

“Oh I’ll give you sick, lady,” Chetwood sneered as his hands collided with her shoulders. Mary felt her feet fall out from under her as she staggered backwards, sticking her hands out to brace her fall. The jarring in her wrists sent shockwaves up her arms, shooting up like lightning. Mary tried to angle her stomach away from the floor as she landed on her side, but the impact still hit her hard and she whimpered.

Chetwood strode even closer before pressing his foot into her left thigh. He suddenly lifted his leg inly to slam it back down again onto her leg. Mary heard a sickening crack before a blinding pain. She screamed as tears streaked her cheeks. Not yet satisfied with his work, Chetwood pressed his foot yet further into her leg, intent on drawing out every inch of pain possible, enjoying the melody of her cries.

Abruptly his foot lifted, Mary thought little of it, glad of a respite. When she had got her gasping breaths down to a normal pitch of volume, she understood why he had let up. Dogs barking could be heard in the distance, their yelps growing nearer and nearer. The search party had arrived.

“They’re here,” Chetwood whispered. “They’re finally here.”

He lowered his gaze to the Queen once again, reaching down to haul her to her feet, ignoring her whimpers as she put weight on her broken leg.

He pressed his face close to her ear. “Come my dear. Our audience awaits.”

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Saturday 24th December 1927 3:30 am

Darkness had once again crept up on the search party, making their surroundings and the overhanging branches appear quite tenebrous, especially against the torchlight. They had been following the trail the dogs had found for hours now, having to backtrack as they had been going completely the wrong way. The detective had said the major had a horse, which explained how he was able to cover such a distance in such a short time, with a heavily pregnant woman.

Much quicker than they were advancing on foot.

George reached into his jacket to retrieve his timepiece, only to find that it had frozen in the cold.

“Damn it!” He swore, shaking the cursed thing, trying to get it to work.

His thoughts and foul-mouth were interrupted by a scream. George’s face went white as bile rose in his throat. “Mary…” he whispered. He’d know her voice anywhere.

He took off at a run in the direction of the noise, his companions only a step behind him.

They moved through the snow at quite a clip; George paid no attention to the cuts and scraps he got battling his way through the forest, simply letting them hit him. He just could make out a shadowy mass in the distance, and when he saw it, he had no doubt that’s where his wife was.

As they grew closer, the torchlight illuminated it more, and they could see it was a shack of some kind. Terribly run down and desolate. Perfect for hiding in. No one would wish to set foot in the place.

All of a sudden the door flung open, and out walked Chetwood with Mary held firmly against his chest. George stumbled to a halt, and he could hear other behind him do the same.

“No…” he heard Maud whisper, along with muffled gasps from both Isobel and Cora.

Mary had a blue-black bruise across her right cheekbone, her cheeks themselves were raw and streaked, obviously from her tears. Her dress was ripped and filthy, her shawl hanging loosely about her arms; no covering at all to keep her warm. She also stumbled with a hugely obvious limp and looked as if she were going to throw up, likely from the pain of walking on it. The bastard had broken her leg.

Had the circumstances been different, George would have thrown himself at the man and beaten him until dead. But he was holding Mary in front of him like a shield, knowing full well no one would dare to shoot or harm him whilst he held the pregnant Queen. George ground his teeth but held himself back.

Because that wasn’t the only reason they froze.

Chetwood had a gun, pressed to Mary’s temple, the safety pulled back.

“Glad you could all join us,” he drawled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I'm just gonna keep making it worse for you “¯_ (ツ)_/¯“
> 
> Whatcha gonna do about it


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took me so long!
> 
> It's nice and long if that makes up for it !

Saturday 24th December 1927 3:30 am

For a moment, just a brief moment, it was completely silent.

Isobel would have said dead silent, had she not feared the apt description would become a reality if spoken aloud.

It was indeed apt as no one had spoken for several minutes. No one had even scarcely dared to breathe. They just stared in tense fright, at the revolver held at the Queen’s throat, and the lunatic holding it.

Isobel watched the white puffs of air leaving the King’s lips increase their speed, as his breathing no doubt raced to match his heartbeat. She took note of his stance, poised like an animal ready to pounce, his muscles flexing with the strain of holding himself back from running to his wife.

Not that she blamed him. They were all terrified for Mary, whose lips were growing bluer, and skin growing paler by the second, accentuated by the contrast of her mud-stained gold dress. Her lips and arms were quivering, and Isobel couldn’t quite tell if the shaking was solely from the cold, or if her fear played a part. She could hear her faint whimpers as she was forced to walk forward slightly on her broken leg.

Isobel felt a hand grasp hers tightly and looked round slightly to the right to see Princess Mary in her peripheral vision, hanging onto her arm like a lifeline. Next to her, Cora and Maud were clutching at each other just as tight, Elizabeth and Bertie looked just as terrified, Bertie’s two remaining brothers huddled close to the couple in equal panic. She could feel the presence of her husband and two others behind her, she assumed Doctor Clarkson and Lord Grantham. Turning to her left, Isobel saw the Carsons and the two detectives inching ever closer, slowly drawing out their pistols. A movement seen not only by Isobel.

The Major harshly yanked the Queen in their direction, raising the barrel to her temple, ignoring her cries as she was forced to put yet more pressure on her leg. “One more step,” he hissed. “And she dies.”

The King noticeably stiffened, thought Chetwood paid him no mind, focusing on the two men instead. “Take out your guns and place them on the ground,” he ordered. They hesitated a second too long.

“PUT THEM DOWN!” He roared.

“For heaven’s sake listen to him!” The King finally snapped, frantically, keeping his eyes fixed on his Mary who in turn had her eyes on him.

Satisfied the guards were disarmed, Chetwood finally turned his attention to the King. “Ahhhh, Your Majesty,” he crooned. “We’ve just been _dying_ to see you. Haven’t we, Mary?” He squeezed the arm holding her up around her chest, the one she was clinging onto to stay upright, tighter.

“That bastard,” Isobel heard Elizabeth hiss quietly, silent tears falling down her face.

“Let her go,” George’s voice was a mix of a plea and venom, his hatred for the man combining with apprehension.

The major chuckled humourlessly, giving the King a sarcastic smile and pulling back the safety on the gun with his thumb. “I think you and I both know it’s a little late for that.”

“Why are you doing this?! Princess Mary cried, lurching forward towards her mother only to be held back by Isobel and Robert.

“That you even had to ask shows your ignorance!” The disgust was thick in his words. “What right have you to live in your finery and splendour when there are free men kept in chains under your name?!”

“And this is your grand solution?!” Elizabeth shrieked, causing her husband to recoil slightly in favour of maintaining his hearing. “Killing the Queen?!”

“Oh no. No, no, no,” Chetwood shook his head, tutting at the young Duchess, his tongue snaking out to moisten his bottom lip. “You see, Mary here is quite simply just a stepping-stone,” he raised the pistol to Mary’s eyeline before pointing it at the man directly in front of them. “You are what I’m after.”

George remained motionless, unflinching, and stared straight down the barrel of the gun. His voice was steely, unwavering as he spoke. “Let her go, and you can have me.”

“NO!” Mary shouted, stumbling on her leg until the major hauled her upright again. The two detectives and the Kings sons made a start towards the King, stopping abruptly at the raise of his hand.

“But what difference would it make? Really?” George asked, walking towards the man holding his wife. “I have four living sons, a daughter, and three grandchildren to succeed me. Surely you know the monarchy will not end with my death. You shoot me, and my men will not hesitate to fire. You will not harm anyone else.”

“I am under no illusions that I can kill you all, no matter how much I wish to,” Chetwood condescended, as if he were a schoolteacher patronising his young charges. “But that is neither here nor there.”

“Then what is the point?” George edged even closer, monopolising the man’s attention. He’d noticed several moments ago that Tom had slipped away and was now in the treeline behind the major, creeping his was forward, silently. A fact the major seemed, thankfully, unaware of.

“I’m simply the gateway to a free world. I don’t have to kill you all, I just have to kill one of you. To prove it can be done. Then others will follow, as they always do. Your family will meet the same sticky end as the Russians.”

His words sent a chill through all present, and George stiffened, his eyes wide as he remembered that July night of 1918. It was no secret that a Monarchy relied on its basest level remaining strong. A crack in its foundations could not simply be papered over. A fact the Tsar and his family had learnt the hard way. George’s greatest fear was that he would not be able to protect his own family from meeting a similar fate.

Amidst all this, Isobel had been closely watching the Queen. Every few moments she hunched a little further over, her face contorting in bravely concealed agony, and her mouth pressed into an extremely thin line, as if to bite back a scream.

“She’s in labour,” she whispered anxiously to Doctor Clarkson, who stood only a few feet behind her. She sensed him straighten in realisation at the same time Mary’s nails finally broke the skin on her arm, having heard what was whispered.

“It’s too early,” he muttered urgently in response. “It’s not due for nearly another month.”

The King, barely a few feet away, also overheard the baroness’ observation, and ignoring the stabbing pain in his heart as it thumped uncontrollably, fought to keep his expression neutral. Though he could not keep his eyes from darting back to Mary before moving back to the major. Whilst he hoped it had gone unnoticed, he was not naïve enough to believe it to be the case.

“Oh of course!” The major laughed, gesturing the gun in his hand towards Marty’s extended stomach while she attempted to shift further away, but was held fast. Her hands shifted protectively over her baby as she looked over in fear to her family and friends, who were watching her in equal concern and fright.

“I believe congratulations are in order, sir,” Chetwood continued. “You are about to be a father again. Most wonderful I must say.”

His goading finally broke the King, whose voice immediately dropped into a desperate plea as he was no longer just bargaining for the lives of his wife and child, but the necessary time needed to ensure safety for the all-too-soon impending arrival of the child.

“Please,” his voice shook as he spoke. “Please, just let her go, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“Even your own life?”

George locked eyes with Mary.

“In a heartbeat.”

“George, no…” Mary whispered, silent tears tracking her cheeks. Many of the onlookers were quietly crying too.

Chetwood took a moment to consider. Drawing in a sharp breath he answered, “fine.”

Tears were spilling faster and heavier from Mary’s eyes as she could feel the major’s grip slacken ever so slightly.

“Up against that tree,” she heard her captor grunt, as she felt him gesture to their right at the pine tree only a few feet from them. She watched in horror as George walked slowly towards the indicated spot, where he stood tall with pride, looking directly into the eye of his executioner. His body was angled away from the crowd, towards the hut Mary had been held in. At first, Mary assumed it was to spare his family as much as he possibly could of the ordeal. But as Mary looked more closely, she realised his calm was not a face. He knew something she didn’t.

Mary slyly angled her head to see around the form of the major and for a moment could see nothing but shadows. That was until a flicker of moment caught her eye and she saw the form of Tom Branson slip behind one of the neighbouring trees.

She shifted her gaze back to George and the small twitch in his left eye let her know that he knew she understood.

“We had a deal,” George demanded.

“And so we did,” Chetwood agreed. “And I’ll unhand her to your guards in a moment, but don’t you agree she deserves a front seat view of her husband’s final moments?” 

“You would force someone to watch their loved one die?” George spat. But the major remained unfazed.

“Oh, I insist,” he crooned. “We must all witness death at some point during our blessedly short lives.”

“Indeed,” George agreed. “Only…it will not be my death they are witnessing.”

The major had only a moment to be confused before a single, solitary shot ran through the air.

Mary froze as she heard the gun fire, feeling a splatter of blood on the right side of her face. She was aware of nothing around her, not the shouts nor movements of her rescuers as they raced to her, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. She wondered briefly if it were her own, but as she dared venture a look she saw the blood belonged to the man next to her, and Tom Branson stood a few metres away, pistol in hand, aimed at Chetwood.

He had been shot in the neck, a small trail of crimson-red appearing at the corner of his mouth. He looked startled, his expression blank and pale. Mary watched as his eyes finally glassed over and felt the weight of him collapse on her as he finally lost his short battle.

Everything happened in slow motion after that. She felt herself falling under the man’s weight, unable to support him on her injuries. But somehow she stopped before she hit the ground whilst the major’s lifeless body kept falling, landing with a final thud.

She felt strong arms envelope her as she was bundled into an embrace. She didn’t need to look to see whose, instead burrowed her face into his neck, breathing in his familiar smell.

“I’ve got you, my darling,” George murmured over and over into her hair, where his face was pressed. “I’ve got you. It’s over, it’s all over now.”

She was cradled in his arms and he rocked her gently back and forth, not just comforting her, but reassuring himself that she was alright. It was curled up in George’s arms that the shock finally wore off, and Mary started to cry.

It started soft, but eventually the sobs were wracking her body. She took no notice of what was happening, instead just feeling the immense release and relief of the last few days. She didn’t feel the coat Mr Carson draped around her shoulders that George tucked more firmly around her. She didn’t feel George rise from the floor with the assistance of a few others with her in his arms. She didn’t notice their movements towards the car, nor noticed being placed in it, on George’s lap.

She was shaken back to the present by her husband and it was then she noticed they were back in the car with a few others. Mrs Carson sat in the front with the chauffer, Isobel sat next to George, Doctor Clarkson opposite, and Maud right next to him.

Mary barely had time to take in their faces before another contraction ripped through her. Mary bit back her cry by stifling it against George’s shoulder pad.

Isobel took her hand, letting her squeeze it. “Breathe through it,” she instructed as she laboured her own breathing for Mary to copy. “In and out, that’s it.”

Mary focused on her breathing, closing her eyes, and focusing on the calming rhythm.

“We need to examine her soon,” she heard Doctor Clarkson say. “How close are we to the house?”

It was Mrs Carson that answered. “We’re closer to Downton from this distance, so we’ll take her there.”

“My bag…” he started.

“It’s here by my feet. We thought it best to bring.”

“Good, good,” Richard nodded.

Mary’s contraction finally eased, and she relaxed her grip on her friend’s hand.

“Twenty-two seconds,” Doctor Clarkson observed.

“Do you know how close they are?” Isobel asked the Queen, who shook her head in the negative before resting it on her husband’s shoulder. George rubbed his hand over his wife’s stomach as she leaned heavily on him.

It was a mere half an hour, and eight contractions later that they finally sped up the drive to the abbey, before screeching to an abrupt halt.

Mary was lifted from the car after everyone else had leapt out, supported briefly by Isobel and Elsie before being lifted once again by George.

She was quickly carried through the doors and up the stairs to her room.

Her room was lit by a fire, the white sheets were turned down and additional pillows had been placed against the headboard. George sat her down on the bed’s edge, mindful of her broken leg. Only himself, Maud and Isobel were in the room with her, the others including Doctor Clarkson were outside in order to give her some privacy.

She was quickly, and yet gingerly, undressed and changed into a robe, the nightgown forgone for now. No sooner had she settled back against the pillows, did another contraction grip her.

This one lasted no longer than the last few had, and soon she was relaxing back onto the bed. George watched her in a perpetual state of worry, tensing further and further with every contraction Mary experienced. His discomfort in seeing her in pain was unmistakable.

“Twenty-five seconds,” Maud said, smoothing over the back of Mary’s hand with her thumb.

“Alright,” Isobel said softly once Mary has relaxed. “Doctor Clarkson needs to examine you, but once we’ve checked you over we’ll have a bath brought up for you to get clean.”

Mary nodded, exhaling softly. Isobel left the room to fetch the doctor, Maud following closely behind so that husband and wife were left alone for a few minutes.

George quickly sat next to his wife, firmly kissing her lips before pressing their foreheads together. They sat quietly in that position, eyes closed, breathing deeply, soaking in the feeling of being near each other once again, both weeping gently.

“I was so scared,” Mary’s voice cracked as she spoke, her lip trembling.

George hushed her gently, smoothing his hands up and down her sides, brushing away her tears with his thumb. “You’re here, I have you,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”

A shuddering breath was his only reply, fluttering against his neck.

He felt rather than saw Mary tense, her nails gripping the skin of his hand, leaving crescent shaped indents, as she once again resumed her panting.

“That’s it, breathe love,” George smoothed his hands down her sides, grasping her forearms to help her as she raised herself up onto her knees, rocking back and forth to ease the pressure on her hips.

A knock on the door sounded, which was promptly opened without waiting for a reply, revealing Isobel trailed by Richard. George barely acknowledged them, focusing all his attention on his wife.

“I’d like to examine you now, if I may, your Majesty. So, we can get an idea of the situation” Richard prompted, eyes flitting between George and Mary, a clear sign he was asking George to leave the room.

George looked to Mary for her answer, eyes pleading, hoping she’d changed her mind and let him stay with her.

Mary smiled gently, cupping his face in her hands. “Go,” she said softly.

“Are you sure?” George asked.

“Yes, darling, go. I’ll be fine.”

George sighed, knowing he’d been defeated. Placing one last kiss on Mary’s brow, he stood and walked to the door, looking like a kicked puppy.

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Saturday 24th December 1927 9:00 am

It had been nearly five hours since George had left his wife, and the lack of news coming from the door was troubling him.

So, he paced. In the drawing room. Back and forth, the length of the fireplace’s mantelpiece. Saying nothing and replying to no one. He’d refused breakfast, which had been served upon the arrival of the rest of the group. He just felt too nauseous to eat; too strung with anxiety to do anything but pace.

The rest had arrived almost an hour after they had, Mary and Elizabeth affording him a quick kiss on the cheek before running off to support the Queen. Cora had followed shortly after; and George had not really paid attention to where any of the others had disappeared to.

He was in the company of Tom, Dickie, and Robert, who all perfectly understood the King’s fear, and sat in supportive silence. Mr Carson often ventured in and out of the room, relaying messages from his wife over the Queen’s condition.

As he understood it, his three sons and son-in-law had gone to fetch their eldest brother from Harewood, where he was still laid up from his wound, though seemed that he was going to make it.

The brief moments George’s mind was not on Mary, which was extremely infrequent, he reflected on how proud he felt of his son, risking his life for his mother. Whatever reservations he had had about David being his sibling's Godfather, were completely eradicated.

He just hoped and prayed it wasn’t all for nought, and that his wife and two children, his oldest and his youngest, would survive the whole ordeal.

\--------------

Mary was exhausted and covered in sweat. Strands of hair had come undone and were sticking to her face and neck. Maud brushed them away best she could in Mary’s slumped position. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed, and breathing steady, resting between contractions that were getting much closer together now, barely more than thirty seconds apart. The poor woman was absolutely drained of all her energy, and in desperate need of a cold bath. But she was too close to the end now to risk moving her.

She’d had a bath several hours ago, to scrub away the dirt and grime from her time spent in the woods; making her feel relatively human again, when her daughter and daughter-in-law had rushed in to see her followed by the Countess, enveloping her in as best a hug as they could manage without hurting her further. Maud and Cora had remained at either side of her, Elizabeth and Mary now waiting just outside of the room. Isobel was at the foot of her bed with Doctor Clarkson, holding the sheet up so the man could examine her further.

She had been stripped of her nightgown and was now laying with the sheet barely covering her. Her broken leg had been propped up by several pillows but was still causing her a severe amount of pain from the angle it had to remain at for the birth. She did so hate being poked and prodded, but merely endured it for the necessity of her situation.

She braced herself against the bed, crying out in pain as another contraction made itself known. She blindly reached out for the hands of her two companions, feeling them grasp hers firmly as she leaned forward slightly, suddenly feeling the urge to bare down. She had vomited once before, and she had begun to shake uncontrollably as the contractions ripped through her, each far more powerful than the last.

“Your Majesty, you’re almost there” the doctor stated. “When you feel ready, try pushing with the next contraction.”

“You’re almost there, love,” Maud praised, she smoothed Mary’s hair back from her forehead as the woman collapsed back against the pillows.

“I feel so nauseous,” Mary said weakly, as the contraction faded. Isobel reached the bedpan first, with by far the quickest reflexes, and she handed it to Maud in time for the lady-in-waiting to hold the basin still as Cora helped lift Mary to the edge of the bed in time for her to vomit. The Countess rubbed her back sympathetically whilst she heaved. When she’d finished, Maud offered Mary a glass of water for her to rinse her mouth.

She had barely settled back onto the bed, when another scream tore itself from her throat as she frantically reached for her friend’s hands. Utterly blinding pain consumed her as she bore down for the first time. Tears stung her eyes as she focused on her breathing, she wasn’t sure if they were spilling down her cheeks or not, her face was already so slick with sweat.

This continued for at least another hour, and both Isobel and Richard were starting to get nervous. The Queen had pushed and pushed and pushed, but they had seen no movement or sign of the child making its appearance.

“You must push, Mary,” Isobel implored.

“Come on, my dear. You’re so close,” Cora encouraged her.

Mary pushed again, but only with the same result. All of her strength had been pulled from her.

“Push, Mary!”

Mary braced herself against the two women as she screamed, only to collapse back against the bed with exhaustion.

“Nothing’s happening,” Richard declared.

Mary had no chance to reply before she screamed again, panic starting to set in. She felt entirely out of control as the pain wracked her body. The agony was so intense, she felt like she could not bear it anymore. “It hurts so much,” she sobbed.

“I know love, I know,” Isobel sympathised. “But you must keep pushing.”

“I can’t!” Mary cried, tears flowing freely.

“You can,” Maud begged, dabbing Mary’s brow with a damp cloth, as she let the woman squeeze her hand so damn hard she thought she’d break it.

“I want my husband,” Mary whimpered through the pain. “I want George.”

Isobel lost no time, flinging open the door to find Mary and Elizabeth waiting anxiously on the other side, clearly listening to the Queen’s screams and cries.

“Go get your father,” Isobel demanded, wasting no time with pleasantries. Mary didn’t wait for any, as she sped down the stairs to find her father.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunday 24th December 1927 10:40 am

Mary sprinted down the stairs as fast as her legs could carry her without falling and breaking her neck.

She was fairly certain the drawing room’s occupants had heard her coming before she’d even reached the door, as they were all stood on their feet looking on anxiously as she burst rather unprecedently into the room.

She gave them no time to ask question, seeking out her father instantly and imploring him to follow her with the desperate words “she needs you!”

George didn’t remember leaving the room, nor dropping his glass of whiskey on the carpet, only that now he was sprinting ahead of his daughter up the stairs to meet Lady Merton at the door to his wife’s room, Elizabeth waiting next to her.

He could now clearly hear Mary, and the anguish in her voice. George wondered briefly just how much pain Mary was actually in, as she had always been one to grin and bear it. Even when she had given birth to the other children in the claustrophobic confines of York Cottage, where every single sound could be heard across the entirety of the household, she hadn’t made much noise. He truly had no idea what he was walking into. 

“Can’t you give her something for the pain,” George asked frantically.

Isobel shook her head. “Not without potentially harming the baby.”

George huffed impatiently as he once again began to pace.

“You need to calm down before you see her,” Isobel ordered, and she said it with such authority that even though George’s panic he didn’t dare question her. He simply nodded and swallowed the huge lump in his throat.

“I know it’s difficult. I know every minute of this is torture for you, and you have no idea what to expect, but you have to be strong for Mary. You _need_ to be strong for Mary. You have to be her rock; she cannot feel you panicking because then she’ll panic more than she already is. The entire process of childbirth is messy, bloody, and so terribly painful. And this is already proving extremely difficult for her.”

“What can I do,” George croaked.

“Support her,” Isobel answered. “Be her strength in whatever way she needs; even if that is physically holding her up.”

George nodded before following the woman into the room. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of his wife, and yet despite everything she was beautiful.

He pushed down every inch of panic as best he could, not thinking about what was happening, and rushed over to her side, Maud and Cora both retreating away from the bed as they saw him enter. He didn’t like the idea of childbirth, but he was damned if he wasn’t going to be there when May needed him.

“George!” Mary cried weakly once she saw him.

“I’m here, my love,” he said, kissing her fiercely. He stood up to shrug his jacket from his shoulders, throwing it aside, not caring where it landed as he rolled up his sleeves and toed off his shoes. He climbed onto the bed behind Mary, letting her back rest against his chest as he held both her hands in his. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head as she bore down again, grimacing with the strain. He tried not to grimace with her; he could feel his panic rising, and focusing solely on calming his racing heart through his breathing. Mary needed him calm, it didn’t matter what came, or what he wasn’t prepared for, he would be calm.

“George…” Mary only just managed to faintly sound out his name before she screamed again. He held her tight, noticing her shaking. He felt absolutely hopeless when all he could do was hold her.

“I see something,” Richard proclaimed, motioning with a jerk of his head for Isobel to come closer.

“Is it the head?” Mary managed faintly.

Richard shook his head regretfully. “I’m afraid not, your baby is breech. That means you’re going to have to push even harder now.”

Mary began to cry harder, and George could almost feel her giving up.

“I love you; I love you more than anything. I’m so proud of you,” George whispered to her over and over again. He lifted his legs slightly on either side of her, using his feet hooked under her thighs to pull her legs slightly further apart.

He paused in his mantra for a moment as her last contraction subsided and she took a deep breath, gasping for air. He wrapped his arms under hers, pulling her flush against his chest so she could focus her efforts fulling on pushing. She could no longer hold his hands properly, so she grasped his forearms tight, relying fully on George to hold her up whilst she slid further down the bed as she screamed.

“You are amazing,” George whispered as he pressed more kisses to her head. “I love you so much.”

She could feel the baby shifting further as she pushed. The feeling motivated her to gather her strength and push again. It was an equally wonderous and painful experience, as she felt her child being born.

“Just a few more pushes, your Majesty!”

George watched in rapt awe as his wife gave birth to their child. He’d never thought this was something he would witness, but it was so magical seeing his child coming into the world that he wondered why he had never insisted on being here with her before. Most husbands on the early twentieth century would have been disgusted by the whole ordeal, but it just made George love his wife all the more.

“You’re nearly there, May-flower. One more big push, you can do this,” George muttered into her ear, pressing a kiss on its shell.

Mary braced herself once more, bearing down with every ounce of strength she had left. She ignored the burning sensation as she pushed before she collapsed one last time. The relief she felt as her child slipped from her body caused her to fall back, panting, eyes closed, against George’s chest. 

A piercing, newborn cry ripped through the air, as their baby discovered its lungs for the first time.

“Oh!” George gasped, tears streaming down his face at the sight of his child. The babe was red and slimy, covered in residue from the birth, but it was still the most beautiful thing George ever saw.

The cord was cut, the baby handed over to Isobel who immediately took it to a nearby table, to clean and swaddle the babe.

George pressed kisses all over his wife’s face and shoulder, almost any place he could reach as she gasped for breath, until she turned her face to his and he kissed her lips soundly.

“I love you so much,” George mumbled against her. After a few moments he pulled away, and Mary could see his eyes and face were shining with tears, just like hers.

It was then they noticed that Richard had joined Isobel by the table and was examining the child properly.

“How is our baby?” George asked urgently, as he listened to the child’s cries.

“A mighty healthy bairn, sir; perfect in fact. A miracle considering all that’s happened.”

The news caused the new parents to cry with relief, their smiles splitting their faces. Mary let out an elated chuckle, her chest still heaving.

A few moments passed, and once the after birth had been delivered, with hardly as much strain, their child was ready to be brought over, swaddled in blankets, carried by Isobel to be laid on Mary’s chest. Mary reached eagerly for her child, crying the sweetest tears as it was pressed to lie against her skin. The babe cried only a few seconds longer but calmed almost instantly as it settled against her, mouth open and rooting. The King and Queen stared almost transfixed at the baby, lost entirely in their pure happiness.

Isobel cleared her throat gently, capturing their attention.

“Congratulations, you two, you have a beautiful, healthy baby girl.”

“A baby girl,” George repeated to Mary in a voice that was almost broken; and though exhausted she smiles through her tears, all pain from moments before melting away into nothing. Mary clutched her daughter tighter to her, pressing a kiss on her pink, waxy forehead. Her heart felt like it would burst.

George felt as if the air was stolen from his lungs. He had a daughter. A beautiful, tiny, perfect baby girl. The thought alone was enough to bring more tears to George’s eyes. He managed to tear his eyes away from his baby to take in his equally beautiful wife. The earlier pain was gone from her face, replaced by pure bliss; her eyes shining with absolute happiness. Neither noticed the Doctor or the nurse slip from the room to give them a little privacy, and to no doubt break the good news to the rest of the household.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, my darling. You’ve given me yet another perfect child.” He brushed his hand, gently over his daughter head as she snuffled quietly against her mother’s skin. She had a dusting of hair, a blonde that George had no doubt would darken into the golden colouring of her Mama.

“Would you like to hold her?” Mary asked softly, turning to look at her husband. George nodded, unable to speak, his words caught in his throat. He was tense with caution as Mary gently placed their daughter in his arms, before relaxing as he settled into a comfortable hold.

He was completely enraptured by his tiny daughter as he cradled her gently. He stood from the bed, lifting the baby to place a kiss on her forehead.

“Hullo, little boxer,” he whispered, causing Mary to giggle at the nickname.

“Boxer?” she asked, incredulously, with exaggerated exasperation. “You’re definitely sticking with that one then?”

George laughed softly, careful not to jostle his baby girl. “She didn’t spend months on end bruising your ribs not to earn a nickname for her efforts.”

Mary laughed again, shaking her head.

The baby began to fuss slightly, opening her mouth to let out a pathetic cry which loudened to a miniature roar.

“I think someone’s hungry,” George announced, turning back to his wife, who had lifted herself into a seated position.

“Give her here,” she said, raising her arms to take her daughter. George carefully manoeuvred the child back into her mother’s arms, before sitting on the edge of the bed next to Mary. The baby latched onto Mary’s breast, suckling greedily. Mary hissed lightly at the feeling.

“Does it hurt?” George asked.

Mary nodded. “A little, but its more uncomfortable than painful. I’ll get used to it again soon.”

The parents sat contently, watching their baby feed until a flutter of her eyelids caught their attention.

“Oh, George! She’s opening her eyes,” Mary whispered excitedly. George merely grinned as he observed their baby open her eyes to reveal an ocean of startling blue.

“She’s perfect,” George laughed quietly, stroking his daughter’s cheek.

“Hello baby girl,” Mary whispered, rocking her daughter gently whilst she fed, smiling at the way as their baby stared at them curiously.  
“I’m your Mama, and this big, brave man is your Papa.” The baby’s eyes were searching, but not afraid, as if she recognised them.

George huffed good-naturedly, never losing his smile. “Hello beautiful,” he said. “You’re going to be so loved you really don’t stand a chance. And since you’re going to be as beautiful as your Mama, you really don’t have a chance at finding a husband either, because we’ll have fought them all off, your brothers and I.”

Mary laughed quietly, knowing just how true it was.

“I love you, little one,” he added.

Their daughter blinked heavily, before closing her eyes again, seemingly done with her feeding as she rested her head against Mary’s chest.

“You know,” Mary whispered, as she ran her finger over her baby’s forehead, feeling the waxiness of it. “We never did come up with a name.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” George said quietly. “And I have a few ideas.”

Mary looked at him in reply, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Well, we said she should have her own name, what about Eleanor?”

“Eleanor,” Mary tested the name on her tongue. “Eleanor,” she said looking down at her daughter.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered. “What about her middle names?”

“I have a few,” George answered. “Charlotte for one.”

“For Queen Charlotte?” Mary raised an eyebrow.

“Partly,” George admitted. “But also, for my mother, it was one of her middle names.”

Mary nodded, motioning for him to go on.

“And I thought Adelaide for the last name,” he said, causing Mary to tear up at the mention of her own mother’s name.

“Really?” she asked.

George nodded, smiling. “And I like Louise, one of her own beautiful mother’s names.”

Mary smiled, tearily. “What order?”

  
George pondered for a moment.

“Eleanor Charlotte Louise Adelaide?”

Mary shook her head.

“Louise Charlotte Adelaide?”

She shook her head again. “No, it feels like there’s something missing.”

They sat in silence for a while, pondering over their daughter’s names when suddenly Mary spoke.

“Eleanor Jane Louise Charlotte Adelaide.”

“Jane?” George asked curiously. “For whom?”

Mary shrugged. “It’s her own name,” she said, as she ran her finger gently down her daughter’s button nose, chuckling as it scrunched in response. 

George nodded, approving of the choice. He turned back to his daughter, smiling gently down at her.

“Welcome to the world, Eleanor.”

Princess Eleanor Jane Louise Charlotte Adelaide slept on, blissfully unaware of the world around her, safe in the arms of her parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EEK!  
> Let me know what you think!! xx


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the second to last chapter, the next will be an epilogue of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you wanted to know, I have decided to go ahead and write a sequel!  
> I should be able to start it fairly soon after finishing this one, since I cannot yet go back to university thanks to the government, so I should have lots of time on my hands.

Saturday 24th December 1927 11:25 am

“It’s a girl!”

“Oh!”

Cries of delight echoed around the servant’s hall as Isobel delivered the news. Cries loud enough to be heard on the upper floors of the abbey. Or at least, Mrs Patmore’s voice could be, to no one’s surprise, as the staff expressed their joy at the arrival of the baby princess.

“Is there a name?” Baxter asked eagerly, Mr Moseley next to her practically vibrating with excitement.

Isobel nodded, grinning like the Cheshire cat. She’d barely been able to refrain from asking herself when she went back into the room; she would have burst if Queen Mary hadn’t told her herself. “Eleanor Jane Louise Charlotte Adelaide.”

The proclamation was followed with a spattering of coos and ‘awes’, the loudest of which from one Joseph Moseley, who himself had burst into tears, and was being given a wide berth from all those around him. He had started doing what could only be described as a cross between a jig and a waltz but was nowhere near as lyrical or rhythmic as either.

The dancing fool aside, the rest of the servants were also elated that all had ended well, including the imminent recovery of Prince David, who had arrived back at the abbey little more than an hour ago and was laid up resting in his room.

Elsie subtly sidled up to Isobel. Wary of disturbing the cheerful mood, she spoke in a low voice. Isobel leaning closer to catch her words.

“Are you certain they’re both alright?” She asked, concerned. “Mary _and_ the baby?”

Isobel nodded again; her smile unwavering. “Oh yes, they’re both perfectly fine. Except Mary’s leg,” she added. “But that’s no true cause for concern. She’ll be in plaster for a month or two and she can barely sit comfortably, but luckily it was clean and didn’t break the skin, so it won’t get infected. She’s fighting through the pain, but she’s found that if she sits at a certain angle it hurts her less. She’s strong, she’ll recover.”

Elsie’s smile blossomed on her face. “Oh, thank God,” she laughed breathlessly. “How’s the King taking it? Charles told me he was present?”

“Yes,” Isobel confirmed. “He’s ecstatic. He’s still there now worshipping his wife and fawning over his daughter. I honestly don’t think there’s a happier man alive!”

“Oh,” Elsie said softly, melting at the lovely thought. “That’s very sweet.”

“I know,” Isobel sighed. “He hasn’t left their side the entire time. Not that I blame him. I think he’s afraid he’ll wake up and find that they didn’t make it.”

Elsie nodded solemnly. “I suppose what happened won’t leave them for a while. Maybe ever.”

“Likely not. But for now, it’s over.” 

“It really is over.”

“It is,” Isobel sighed. “They can actually rest now.”

“Mmm,” Elsie agreed. “Well…as restful as it gets with a new-born.”

Isobel chuckled. Her response was halted by the approach of Elsie’s mountain of a husband, who had brought over a drink for his wife. It appeared the staff had taken it upon themselves to celebrate the birth with a toast.

“Can I tempt you, milady?” Carson asked, offloading the beverage to the housekeeper, before turning to Isobel.

“No, no,” Isobel held up her hand. “Alas, I’m afraid I must regretfully decline. In fact, I should be getting back upstairs to attend to her Majesty.”

“Of course,” Carson rumbled. The baroness smiled cheerfully back, offering the couple a little wave as she made her way up the stairs. The two heads of house watched her ascend in content silence, remaining out in the hallway a few moments longer.

“Well,” Elsie sighed. “I’m certainly glad its all worked out for the better.”

“Oh indeed,” Carson agreed in his deep timbre. “All is well and good. But I’m still not sure how I feel about a man being present at a birth. The King of England no less! Is it really proper?”

“Is it that much of a revelation?”

“Well…Its not how its done,” he explained, as if that argument held enough merit to win of its own accord.

“Well perhaps it’s about having the person you love and trust the most there with you?” Elsie suggested, half-sarcastically. “Rather than how you think it would be viewed?”

Charles responded with a rather pained expression, one Elsie wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh at or slap. She instead somehow miraculously schooled her features and did neither. 

“Well,” she carried on, choosing to ignore his disgruntled face. “I certainly would have wanted you there if we had had children.”

He turned to her in surprise, discomfort momentarily forgotten. “Would you?”

She smiled gently, noting his innocent, almost child-like expression. “I would.”

Sensing his confusion, she elaborated further. “I would have liked the father of my children to be there for probably one of the most momentous events in our lives together; holding my hand when our child took its first breath.”

“Well, I suppose…” He furrowed his brow.

She leaned further in to see his face, his head bowed, chin tucked against his chest.

“Would you have begrudged me that?” She asked softly.

Charles was as equally quiet in his response. “No…No I-I couldn’t.” He lifted his head to fully face her again. “I would have held your hand the entire way if that’s what you asked of me.”

Her bright smile made his heart flutter wildly in his chest, as it did every time she looked at him like that.

“Do you wish we had?” He asked tentatively.

It was Elsie’s turn to look confused. “Had what?”

“Had a family.” He clarified. “Children, grandchildren. Perhaps run a teashop, or worked in a factory?”

Elsie bit back a smile. “Are you asking me if I wished I had gone another way?”

Charles huffed a laugh as he looked at his wife’s twinkling expression, remembering their conversation all those many years ago, but offered no more response than a nod to illuminate that was what he had meant.

“Maybe…at one time,” she answered. “But…”

“But?”

“I wouldn’t change where I am now. We found each other in the end, didn’t we Charlie?”

Charles was grinning like an idiot. “We did, my love.”

“Well then,” Elsie smoothed the lapels of his jacket. “That’s all that matters. Besides, I think we have our hands full with the family we have here, don’t you?”

The whistling of another popped cork reached their ears, the cheering following at a borderline acceptable volume. Very much borderline.

“I wouldn’t trade those idiots for anything,” she whispered, chuckling as her husband rumbled with his own laughter, knowing full well he agreed with her.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, now thick with emotion, as he offered her his arm. “Do you suppose, Mrs Carson, we should re-join our rambunctious brood? Before they empty the wine cellars of its contents?”

Elsie merely looped her free arm through his, and they made their way back into the servant’s hall to join the frivolities of their staff, some of whom had taken it upon themselves to burst into a song, it wasn’t one Elsie recognised, mainly because of its lack of a melody, or tune. Daisy was complaining rather loudly that she couldn’t understand why they were celebrating the birth of someone else’s child: ‘They’ve already had six!”. Elsie noticed Mr Barrow was huddled rather close in a corner with Mr Ellis, not even pretending to be discreet whilst still not giving the elder butler anything to ruffle his feathers about.

‘It’s about time he had some happiness,’ Elsie thought, sipping her new glass of champagne that she was fairly certain they shouldn’t be drinking.

‘Yes,’ she thought. ‘All was certainly well’.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Saturday 24th December 1927 12:45 pm

Its apparent, right from the first few hours of her life, that Eleanor was a deep sleeper. A blessing both of her parents both profusely thanked God for. None of their others had been, but for some fortunate reason this child was.

She snuffled quietly against George’s shoulder, where she was gently being held, her father gazing adoringly down at her, gently swaying from foot to foot. George slid his pinkie-finger into his daughters open palm from its resting place on his chest and watched as her tiny fingers curl around it, the baby sleeping on. He could feel her soft breath on the back of his hand, and marvelled yet again at her smallness. He’d almost forgotten how delicate and petite a new-born was and he honestly felt like he could stare at her for hours.

He knew, with some regret, that this wasn’t possible, as he would need to sleep at some point, much like his wife was doing at this very moment. He turned his head to glance down at her. She was sleeping fitfully, her brows drawn in a constant state of worry even whilst she slumbered causing a deep frown line between them, and no amount of George smoothing his fingers gently over it made it lessen.

She’d been reluctant to go to sleep, even though she was exhausted, both mentally and physically, having suffered not only a labour, but had also been awake for well over 48 hours. She’d flat out refused at one point, not wishing to let her daughter leave her sight, literally.

It had taken George nearly an hour to convince her, promising he’d remain here with their daughter the entire time. She had agreed, no less reluctantly, her body finally succumbing to its demands.

Not that he could blame or even fault her for it, because he felt exactly the same. His daughter had had a long and traumatic entry into the world, it wasn’t not unreasonable to assume they’d be at least marginally affected by the circumstances. Though George suspected it was far more grim and severe than simply ‘marginally’.

Eleanor let out a weak cry, alerting her father to the fact he’d stopped moving, so lost in his thoughts and worries. He immediately resumed his rocking, kissing the crown of his baby’s head, gently patting her bottom with his free hand. She settled almost instantly, never actually truly waking in the first place.

His attention was captured by a quiet knock at the door. He silently made his way over, not even raising his voice to permit entry, not wanting anything to disturb his sleeping girls. He cracked open the door to see his other children’s and children-in-law’s hopeful faces beaming brightly on the other side.

“May we come in?” Mary whispered to her father, noting his quiet approach, and guessing the room had sleeping occupants.

“Your mother is sleeping,” he answered just as quietly.

“Its alright, George,” he heard his wife’s voice from behind him. He turned to see her attempting to lift her upper body from the bed, only to flop back against the pillows a little further up than she had been before. She reached up to rub her eyes, yawning through her words. “I’m awake, they can come in.”

He merely opened the door wider, motioning for them to come in with a slight jerk of his head. He walked back to Mary’s bed, perching on the edge beside her, close enough for her to lean against him and reach over to run her finger down Eleanor’s cheek. The worry lining her forehead all but disappeared from having seen her daughter again, knowing she was still there when she had woken.

Elizabeth and Mary shot to the bedside, on the side the King had perched, leaning closer to see the baby’s face.

“Oh…” Mary said softly, her smile threatening to split her face.

“She’s beautiful,” whispered Elizabeth, smiling equally as brightly, albeit waterier, as tears were coming full force down her cheeks.

The Queen smiled in response, physically unable to do anything else as she leaned quite heavily on her husband’s shoulder. She still hadn’t fully woken, nor would she, it seemed; her eyelids kept dropping like they were under a heavy weight. Her body clearly needed more sleep.

George felt her limbs becoming heavier as sleep attempted to claim her again. He knew he’d have rearrange her, so she didn’t wake with a stiff neck on top of everything else.

He quickly handed the child over to her sister, not even asking if she’d like to hold her, seriously doubting the answer would be ‘no’ anyway.

The two other women were immediately enraptured by the tiny little bundle in Mary’s arms, fussing and clucking over the little darling, while George helped his wife lay back down into a more comfortable position. His sons watched in concern as their mother laid down, with only mild protest, and instantly fell into a deep sleep. They weren’t used to seeing her in this way, having been much younger the last time she was in this position.

“Is she truly alright,” Georgie asked gently, mindful of keeping his voice low and quiet.

His father nodded, his eyes unmoving from Mary’s sleeping face, that damn line reappearing between her brows again.

“Yes,” he said softly. “For the most part.”

He spared a glance to his three children, sensing their fret, and elaborated further.

“She’s still shaken up over everything,” he explained. “She’s barely slept since, from the scare and from the pain her leg causes her. And she refuses to let Eleanor leave her sight for any length of time at all. She’ll only make herself sick if this continues.”

“You can’t blame her,” Harry supplied, most helpfully, as if George hadn’t figured that one out himself. Still, he knew they were only concerned and so bit back his retort.

“No,” he said instead, full agreeing with him. He gently smoothed her hair back from her face, sighing when she shifted closer to the warmth of his hand. “But it’s still troubling nonetheless.”

None of the three had time to respond when Elizabeth approached the brothers, cradling Eleanor. “Would you like to hold her?” she asked Georgie, as he was the one stood closest to her.

He nodded dumbfounded and watched in rapt fascination and awe as Elizabeth expertly manoeuvred his sister into his arms, and he wondered at how light, and yet at the same time, how compact she felt.

“She’s so small,” he pondered aloud, keeping his voice at a low murmur. He studied her petite features, recognising his mother in them, despite Eleanor only being a few hours old. The slope of her button nose, her blondish locks, it was all the Queen. Georgie smiled at that; she’d be beautiful when she was older, for now though, she was just plain adorable.

“Were we all that small?” Harry asked no one in particular, almost as if he weren’t really expecting an answer.

“You weren’t,” Bertie answered cheekily, poking fun at his brother’s size, who barely stood a few extra over both his siblings and his parents, but was picked on for his quickly gained height as a young boy.

The smattering of laughter caused the baby to stir, who yawned and stretched her tiny limbs, her right arm pushing against Georgie’s chest from how closely he had her cradled. Bertie huffed a laugh at Georgie’s startled expression, but made no move to take the child, knowing he had a firm enough grip on her.

Content with her stretching, the little princess slowly opened her eyes, bleary and unfocused. Her bright blue eyes left no doubt in her brother’s mind that she was their mother’s child. She remained quiet and calm, clearly happy enough to stay in Georgie’s arms taking in the world around her.

Bertie slipped his finger into her palm, enchanted at the way she grasped it tight. Henry watched in awe, though was no more inclined to get any closer for now. He liked children well enough but was not particularly eager to spend one on one time with one just yet. Still, his eyes gave away just how mesmerized he was with his baby sister.

Elizabeth and Mary watched in amusement as these three uptight and disdainful men, melted at the feet of a baby. Physically unable to control her motions or reflexes, Eleanor had still managed to wrap these three giants around her miniature fingers in no more than two minutes.

“It’s-It’s almost pathetic to watch,” Mary whispered to her sister-in-law.

Elizabeth nodded slowly.

“They don’t stand a chance, do they?”

Elizabeth shook her head slowly. She’d expected this of Bertie, she’d seen his face when their daughter was born. But the other two? She shrugged, simply content to let be what would be.

“Has David met her yet?” she asked her father-in-law. He shook his head in the negative.

“David can’t yet leave his bed, and your Mama cannot yet move to him.”

“Take her now,” Georgie suggested, off-loading his younger sister to his older one. “While Mama’s asleep. We’ll wait with her in case she wakes.”

George hesitated. “I don’t…”

“Oh, go on, Papa,” Mary urged, handing Eleanor back to him. “He’s desperate to meet her. Like George says, we’ll wait with Mama and reassure her if she wakes up.”

“I suppose,” George sighed, rising from the bed with his daughter, glancing back to check on Mary who remained unmoving.

“I’ll be back shortly.”

\----------

David shifted uncomfortably for what was probably the thousandth time. His shoulder caused him pain, no matter what angle he laid at or what side he laid on. He had just accepted that he was to be uncomfortable for the remainder of his recovery, God willing it be a short one.

Of course, acceptance hadn’t stopped his whining. He was quite vocal about his inevitable discomfort, voicing it to anyone and everyone who ventured into his room, usually one of his siblings, Maud, Isobel or Mrs Carson, as his three designated nurses. The latter of which had promptly told him to shut it, the look in her eye so fierce that David never dared whinge in her presence again. He simply saved that pleasure for everyone else.

It didn’t help that his father hadn’t yet come to visit him, nor had his new sister been brought in. Of course, had he been in less of a sulk, he would have rationalised with himself that his father was attending non-stop to the Queen, but had still asked about him frequently. Of course, he knew his mother couldn’t come, as she’d probably be kept in bed a week longer at least.

A knock at the door interrupted his melancholic state, a most unwelcome interruption to his brooding.

“Fuck off,” he grumbled, loud enough to be heard.

The door opened anyway, as it usually did, his carers having taken to ignoring him when he was in a foul mood. Which was most of the time.

The door opened this time to reveal the very man he’d been sulking about, cradling in his arms one of the two people David was most desperate to see.

“Yes, I’m not sure that’s quite the address you should be affording me.”

Moping forgotten, David sat up best he could, eyes wide and hopeful, reminding George of when he was little. And far less annoying.

“We thought you might like to meet someone,” George said, closing the door behind him. He walked over to his son, coming round to sit by the side of his good arm, which unfortunately was now his undominant left. Nevertheless, George wordlessly passed Eleanor to her eldest brother, who cradled her fully, and expertly in his left arm, lost in her little ocean blues.

George breathed a soundless laugh at the look on his son’s face. Eleanor had successfully conquered another victim. They really were all dropping like flies.

“She looks like Mama,” David whispered.

“She does.”

They sat quietly after that, Eleanor the only one breaking the silence with little content gurgles.

George cleared his throat awkwardly. David tore his eyes away from the baby briefly to acknowledge him.

“I want to thank you, David. For doing what you did.”

David looked up, mildly surprised his father may have thought he’d have done anything else.

“She’s my mother,” David said simply. “I would do it again in a heartbeat, I don’t need to be thanked for it.”

“I know,” George nodded. “I know you would. I suppose thanked is slightly the wrong word. But you helped save two lives that night. Your mother’s, and the one you’re holding in your arms now.”

They both looked down at Eleanor, who stared straight back up at David, unblinking.

“What you did was brave, and courageous, my boy,” George continued. “And I’m proud of you.”

David looked up again. He didn’t know what to say to that. His father was proud of him; the thought made him want to jump up and dance if it weren’t for the baby in his arms. Or his injured shoulder. Or the risk of looking like a complete fool. There were many reasons.

He simply smiled back at his father, who smiled in return, before Eleanor grizzled again, demanding the attention she felt she was due. The two men were perfectly happy to oblige.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Saturday 24th December 1927 2:30 pm

Mary groaned softly, as she felt the pull of wakefulness drag her back; she would have been kicking and screaming if she weren’t actually too exhausted to do so.

She groaned again, unable to clamber back into the darkness of slumber. She’d barely managed to be able to sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time, a fact made evident by the dark circles forming under her eyes.

Drifting back to unwelcome consciousness she heard the muttering of voices. She started to feel panic blooming in her chest again, until she’d surfaced far enough to recognise that it was her children’s voices she could hear. She managed to crack open one eye, revealing a sight that confirmed it.

Her children were sat scattered around her bed, though only Mary was actually perched on the bed next to her, the others opting to sit on the available chairs.

Mary inhaled deeply to calm her racing nerves, in through her nose, and out through her mouth. In her nose, out of her mouth. In and out. In. Out. In. Out.

“She’s waking up,” she heard Elizabeth stage whisper, probably intending to actually whisper but not succeeding. Mary felt rather than saw, as her eyes were had closed again, her children’s gazes turn to her.

“Mama?” Mary ventured, taking the Queen’s right hand, knitting their fingers, rubbing her thumb over the back of her mother’s hand.

Mary’s eyes fluttered open reluctantly, before collapsing shut again. She tried opening them again, only to be met with the same result.

“She’s exhausted, she needs more sleep,” she heard Harry mutter, probably thinking aloud. She knew he was fretting just by his tone, which no doubt meant his siblings were as well. Siblings. _Eleanor!_

Mary’s eyes shot open at that thought. Her fears rising anew when she realised she couldn’t see her youngest daughter anywhere.

“Where’s Eleanor?” Mary asked, panic clouding her tone and thoughts, making her oblivious to the worried glances her children were sharing over her head as she looked around searchingly.

“Papa took her to see David,” Mary explained, her tone gentle, attempting to sooth her mother.

Mary nodded in acknowledgement relaxing slightly, outwardly pacified by the information, though when she laid back on her pillows she was notably tense, her breathing still hurried. She was still squeezing Mary’s hand tightly, unaware that she had been doing so in the first place.

Mary glanced anxiously at her siblings, upset and apprehensive at the Queen’s reaction. She kissed her mother’s greying temple, pressing her lips into a firm line as she retreated, holding back her unease. 

“How are you feeling, Mama?” She asked cautiously, fiddling with the fingers interwoven with her own.

Her mother’s smile was stiff and forced when she responded. “Fine. Tired, but fine.”

“You need to sleep…m-more, Mama,” Bertie said, blinking rapidly, a nervous tick.

“I know, I know,” Mary nodded, clearly drained. “I just…can’t seem to be able to.”

She ran a hand over her eyes, once again fighting them to stay open.

The sound of the door handle turning snagged their interest, all head’s turning to see George entering, Eleanor sleeping against his shoulder, her tiny pink toes peeking out from the bottom of her blanket. Mary reached out almost straightaway for her daughter, not fully relaxing until Eleanor was resting snugly against her. Her shoulders visibly dropped their tension, and she sank back into her pillows with a soft sigh.

Mary looked at her father to gauge his reaction, judging by his furrowed expression, he shared their concern and was already well aware of the issue. He met his daughter’s eyes and minutely shook his head. It was not to be brought to attention here.

Instead, he turned to his wife, and began quietly speaking to her. “I’ve sent for Branson, and the rest of them. But I’ve said he’s to come in first.”

“Good,” she nodded. “Send Elsie in with Tom, I’d like to ask her myself.”

Yet another knock on the door signalled the arrival of the very people they were discussing.

“I think that’s our cue,” Georgie supplied, rising from his chair. His siblings followed suit, ambling in a large group towards the door.

“Mary, Bertie, Elizabeth, could you wait a moment.”

It was more a gentle command than a question, so the three hung back at the ‘request’ of the King, whilst the other two men continued out of the room. Mumbling could be heard as the door shut with a thud, no doubt the two princes had informed the rest to wait until their siblings exited.

“Why do I feel like we’re in trouble?” Elizabeth asked curiously, bordering on cautiously. Mary and Bertie shared fleeting glances, slightly afraid at the prospect.

Mary chuckled sleepily. “No nothing of the sort. We want to ask you all to be godparents.”

“Truly, Mama?” Elizabeth asked giddily.

“Of course.”

“We’d be delighted, Mama,” Mary answered, relief and happiness flooding her. “Is it just to be the four of us, including David?”

George shook his head. “No, we’re asking a few more, if they accept that is. And we’d like Henry to be one as well Mary if you could ask him?”

“That’s more godparents than I had,” mumbled Mary, quickly receiving a sharp elbow to the side from Elizabeth and a snigger from Bertie, who then also received an elbow to the ribs from Elizabeth.

“Get out, the lot of you,” George dismissed them with a wave of his hand, smirking at their antics, proving he wasn’t mad in the slightest. “And send in Mrs Carson and Mr Branson.”

The door opened and the three royals disappeared behind it, replaced by the two people in question the King and Queen had wanted to see. The housekeeper and the republican bowed and curtsied respectively, waiting quietly for the King to speak first.

“I apologise for the air of mystery about all this,” the King started. “But we thought neither of you would prefer a large audience.”

The two nodded, sharing fleetingly questioning looks before giving the King their full attention. Instead, it was the Queen that spoke next.

“We’d like you both to be godparents,” she announced, patting Eleanor’s back whilst she slept on.

Both the Scotswoman and the Irishman went wide eyed at that, stood gaping likes fishes with absolutely no clue of what to say; probably not even comprehending what they’d just been asked.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” Elsie started, her blank stare now replaced with a thoroughly perplexed expression. “Did you say you wanted _me_ , to be godmother?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“ _Really?_ ”

Mary laughed. “Yes.”

“Well…I-I’d be honoured,” Elsie replied, mildly shaken by the turn of events. Tom was still stood motionless, catching flies with his mouth agape. Elsie tapped his chin, forcing his mouth to close with a loud clunk of his teeth, Mary and George smothered their laughs as the poor man looked terribly embarrassed already.

“Are-are you sure, sir?” Tom choked out, the words making his mouth awfully dry.

George stood from the bed, walking over to Tom, where he stopped roughly two feet away from him and looked him dead in the eyes.

“Yes. I am,” he stated. “Because a man who has saved the lives of myself, my wife, and my child, on numerous occasions, is a man whom I would trust completely. And is one who deserves one of the highest honours it is within my power to grant my citizens.”

The terror on Tom’s face grew; he really, _really_ had not been prepared for this at all.

George stuck out his hand for Tom to shake. “Congratulations, Sir Thomas Branson.”

“Thank you, sir,” he managed weakly.

The King nodded approvingly before turning on his heel, walking back to his wife and child, who was embraced in the arms of the housekeeper. Tom watched him go, making no move to join them as he took a moment to grasp what had actually just happened. Actually, he felt like he might faint.

“Jesus Christ,” he swore quietly.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Saturday 24th December 1927 11:45pm

The clock of the mantel faintly chimed the third Westminster quarter. Faintly, anyhow, to George’s mind; for a preoccupied mind hears very little of what it is indeed not occupied _with_.

And George found himself of most preoccupied mind, his attention on a matter of the utmost importance that he paid no heed to the late hour.

He was giving his youngest daughter a sponge bath, careful to mind the umbilical cord stump. Eleanor rested against his right forearm, failing her little arms, eyes wide and searching, lips smacking with gentile popping sounds.

He smiled at her innocence, he tapped her nose lightly with the wet sponge, watching it scrunch comically in response.

“She will get cold if you bathe her for too long.”

George looked over his shoulder in the direction of the low voice of his wife. He smiled at her sleepy expression.

“The water is still warm,” he muttered, though nonetheless lifted his daughter from the basin-made-makeshift-bath. He laid her gently on the towel resting on the vanity stool, patting her dry, smoothing her skin with the newly purchased baby powder, before wrapping her loosely in a blanket.

Mary smiled as she watched her husband bring their baby over to her. Though instead of handing her over, he sat himself on the bed next to her, resting Eleanor on his propped-up knees. Mary was quite content to let him, resting her head against his shoulder and ignoring the prominent twinge in her leg that screamed from the twisted angle her body laid at. She couldn’t hide her grimace quite successfully enough, however, as George noticed instantly.

“Your leg,” he stated rather than asked, as he had no doubt it was causing her pain. “Here.”

He placed Eleanor to lay on her stomach on Mary’s chest so that she would not have to move to see her baby. Eleanor’s arms had broken free of her trappings and were lightly hitting her mother’s chest and stomach.

“She’ll no doubt be hungry soon,” Mary observed, beaming as her daughter’s outstretched hand grasped her finger.

“Mmm.” George kissed his wife’s exposed shoulder, resting his forehead against her temple. His hum making it unclear if he was agreeing or merely just acknowledging her words. Not that it really mattered.

“She’s so quiet,” he remarked after a moment.

Mary scoffed. “Wait until she’s realised the full potential of her lungs, she won’t be so shy about using them then. She’ll be screaming in no time. Nor will she be quiet at the christening when they poor ice-cold water over her head, the poor dear.”

George gave a breathless chuckle. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “Though she’s has plenty of godparents to take pity on her, fawn and give her affection.”

Everyone they had asked to be the baby’s godparents had willingly, and eagerly agreed. She was to have an astounding twelve in total, but despite the sheer amount, neither George or Mary could think of a single person they neither did not wish to ask, nor was any less undeserving of the role than the others. So, twelve it was to be.

There was David, Mary, Bertie, Elizabeth; those were to be the only royal godparents. Cora, and Lord Lascelles, Robert, Isobel, Maud, and Dickie. Then of course, Tom Branson and Elsie Carson. They were to be the first godparents of a royal princess to be neither of noble birth nor station. Though of course Tom was to receive his knighthood, but that would not be in time for the Christening, and would at least not be until after the royal family returned to London.

“She’ll be so loved,” George continued.

Mary hummed her agreement, smiling.

“And protected.”

Mary’s smiled faded. She brushed her daughter’s cheek with the back of her finger, neglecting to answer George.

“May,” he said tenderly.

No answer. She bit her lip to quell its tremor.

“May,” he tried again.

“George please don’t,” she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes.

“Oh, my love,” he enveloped her in his arms, holding her as tight as he dared with their daughter between them. “My sweet, sweet darling.”

Mary’s shuddering breaths answered, as she held back her sobs as to not frighten Eleanor with the noise.

“Every time I close my eyes,” she gasped. “I’m back in those horrible woods, unable to run. Unable to protect her. I am afraid that when I finally open my eyes again, she won’t be here.” She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, though some of her tears seeped through, streaking down her cheeks.

“Shhhh,” George wiped some of her tears away, as many as he could before more came. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

She was still shaking when he cradled her face in his hands. “May, look at me my love.”

She raised her watery eyes to meet his.

“I need you to listen to me, I _need_ you to hear me, alright?” She nodded, barely.

“You are safe. Eleanor is safe. And that man. That wretched, damned, disgusting creature is dead. _Dead_. Where he will remain, forever. You. Are. Safe. You. And our daughter. Are safe.”

Mary trembled, sinking further against him.

“Everything will be alright,” he tucked a curl behind her ear. “We will work through this. I promise you.”

Mary just kissed him, crushing their lips together as they both tasted the salt of her tears. “I love you,” she whispered fervently against his mouth. George just kissed her back, transferring all his affection and love into the action, knowing she understood without the need for words.

The sudden, yet quiet whirling of the clock, preceded its twelve chimes. They broke apart to listen to the signal of a new day.

“Merry Christmas, my darling,” George brushed their noses together, ghosting his lips over hers.

“Merry Christmas,” she smiled, stroking his face and beard with her free hand.

A little sneeze caught them by surprise, and they burst into quiet laughter at the equally bewildered look on their daughter’s face, her having not known at all what had happened.

“And Merry Christmas, to you too,” Mary cooed, giggling at her baby, who grizzled happily back, basking in her parent’s attentions.

The clock finished chiming, officially marking the arrival of Christmas Day; a moment the three figures in the bed were probably the only ones in the house awake to witness. A peaceful, serene, beautiful moment they were content to remain in for as long as they possibly could.

Forever, if they could help it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnson's baby powder actually existed in the 1920s if you can believe it. 
> 
> As always let me know what you think!


	20. Chapter 20: Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FINAL CHAPTER!!!!!!!  
> Can't believe I've actually finished this, 71 000 words!!!!!! And I certainly didn't expect all the support I've received on this story!
> 
> I'd like to thank you all so much so sticking with me the last 6 months or so, you've all be absolute angels!  
> I've got the sequel in the making (hoping to post sometime soon), hopefully you'll enjoy it as much you seem to have done this one!
> 
> Lots of love,  
> Ellie  
> xoxoxoxo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice long chapter to make up for a long wait (as usual :'(, kinda need to work on that). 
> 
> WARNING: It gets smutty, so don't like, don't read :)))))

Saturday 27th December 1930 5:30 am

Clouds, blossomed in hues of silver and black, adorned the early morning sky, promising a velvet eiderdown of snow, its delicate flakes hitting the French-windows in gentle waves. The looming lattice of grey clouds brought with it a biting cold, one that slowly seeped through the high-arched stone halls, and certainly cold enough to make one wish they had remembered to put their slippers on before they went wandering.

Hence why, or partially hence why the halls of Sandringham were deserted. The early hour itself was alone reason enough.

Which is why it would have been surprising to anyone unfortunate to have risen in the sub-zero temperatures, to hear a rhythmic pattering echoing through the otherwise deathly silent halls. Listening closely, one would come to realise that the pattering’s were in fact the rapid, tiny footsteps of a three-year-old on a very crucial mission, weaving and winding her way through the numerous hallways.

The three-year-old in question was Princess Eleanor of the United Kingdom, or Nora as she had been nicknamed, dressed only in a nightgown and running barefoot down the halls of her parents Sandringham estate at 5:30 in the morning, trying to reach her destination before nanny realised she was gone and caught up with her.

The toddler redoubled her efforts, moving as fast as her stubby legs could possibly allow, perilously close to losing her equilibrium. Her breath came in little excited puffs as the adrenaline of escaping her captor coursed through her, grinning the whole way.

Though her venture was not in vain, as she rounded the final corner and came face to face with the very place she wished to be. The rich-brown, oak double doors towered over her, but by whatever fortune, had been left slightly ajar. Rather luckily as the handles were far higher than the toddler’s reach would allow. It had probably been assumed that she’d end up here, as had recently become habit, and the room’s occupants would rather she didn’t freeze to death out in the hall. 

Eleanor grunted with the force of opening the door, having to use her entire small body to do so; the doors weren’t exceptionally heavy by reasonable standards, but to a child they presented a considerable challenge. Especially to one who had already run the length of a palace.

When the door was just wide enough, Eleanor squeezed herself through the gap, into the room. It was warmer than outside, mainly due to the dying embers that spat in its grate. The sitting room was cosy but spacious, providing the kind of liveable grandeur one would expect in a palace. Two further double doors stood at the east and west of the room, but it was too dark for Eleanor to see if either were ajar.

She had to guess, and chose the door to her right, which by luck happened to be the right one. Eleanor tried to jam herself through a gap far too small even for her, but eventually the door gave way to let her past, creaking quietly as it did.

The fire in this room was still flickering in life, the glow casting faint shadows in the already dimly lit room, the curtains still drawn.

By knowledge alone, Eleanor navigated her way through the near darkness, avoiding collision with surrounding objects as she toddled towards the bed that lay dead centre against the back wall of the room. Eleanor giggled as she heard soft snoring noises coming from the bed, she liked the funny sounds Papa made when he was asleep. She and Mama would make fun of him, and snore loudly in his ear until he woke up. The snores, as they usually did, acted as Eleanor’s guide in the dim light and she soon found herself directly next to the bed, where her father’s arm was dangling off the side, his face peeking over the edge as he laid on his stomach, obliviously snoring away. She couldn’t see Mama from where she stood, but she knew she was there. She had enough to work with anyway; in fact, Eleanor had probably happened across the better target to get what she wanted.

“Papa,” she stage-whispered, tugging on his arm. She received a short, deep grunt in response; that wasn’t good enough.

“Papa,” she whispered a little louder, tugging even harder on his arm and making his shoulder shake a little. Still no signs of waking.

“ _Papa!_ ”

“Ow!”

Eleanor had resorted to drastic measures, taking her small hand and delivered a sharp tug to his beard. _That_ had worked to wake him.

“Papa, up!” Eleanor insisted, raising her arms, clearly expecting her demand to be heeded. George still had his eyes closed, but he knew this routine well enough by now to picture what she was doing.

“Your child is awake,” George mumbled to his wife, whom he had felt shift beside him. She lay on her side facing him, but he didn’t need to see her to know she’d been woken by his cry of pain. How touching that his wife hadn’t worried enough to check he was alright.

“At this time on a morning, she’s your child. Absolutely nothing to do with me,” Mary mumbled back, nestling further into her pillow, not even bothering to open her eyes. She was a later riser than himself; George would probably be up and about within an hour or less, whereas Mary wouldn’t get up until just gone eight.

George sighed and cracked one eye open. He was met with his daughter’s pouting little face. He let out a low groan that resounded from somewhere deep within him. 

“Come on then, trouble” he lifted her under her arms, and swung her onto the bed, smiling sleepily at her excited giggle. Her joy only greatened when she saw Mary lying next to him, eyes lighting up as they rested on her mother’s face. 

“Mama!” she cried, flinging herself off of George’s chest and landing on Mary’s. George snorted at Mary’s grunt, the full weight of their youngest child knocking the wind out of her.

“God you’re heavy,” she wheezed quietly, ignoring her husband’s snickering. She forced her eyes open and was greeted by the smiling, sunny face of her three-year-old princess.

“Good morning, my darling,” Mary smoothed her daughter’s unruly golden curls back from her face, chuckling as Eleanor planted a sloppy kiss on her lips. “Thank you very much.”

“Welcome,” Eleanor giggled, winding her arms around Mary’s neck, pressing their foreheads together. Quite forcefully, Mary noted, wincing at the bruise she had no doubt would form as their heads met with a thump. Eleanor took no notice and had returned her attentions back to her father and was lavishing him in affection. Or at least Eleanor’s version of affection, which could be quite rough and tumble. Thankfully, this morning she was rather subdued, probably still fairly sleepy, choosing to incessantly babble on rather than throw herself about.

“We go to Downtum, Papa!” She told him as if he had not been the one to tell her originally.

“DownTON, dear,” Mary corrected gently.

“Downtum,” Eleanor nodded so solemnly that Mary had to bite her lip to keep from erupting into laughter. The girl’s speech was quite advanced, but she struggled to pronounce certain words and spoke with a tiny lisp that was proving quite hard for her to correct.

“Do we really?” George schooled his face into a mask of surprise, amused at his daughter’s delighted expression as she nodded eagerly.

“When?”

“Today!” She shrieked, making Mary cringe at the close proximity of the scream.

“Well, I never,” George said aghast. “I’ve haven’t even packed yet!”

“Siwy Papa!” Eleanor giggled, feeling the vibrations from Mary’s chest as she laughed with her.

“Are you sure that’s today?” George feigned confusion.

“Yep, we go see Awntie Cora and Uwcle Robert!”

“And Auntie Maud,” Mary added.

“And Wucy?!” Eleanor asked, inevitably making the connection between the two women. Eleanor had fallen in love with Maud’s daughter, who had been formally introduced as Maud’s companion only a few years ago. The connection had been instant, Lucy adored Eleanor, and Eleanor adored Lucy. And if Mary’s suspicions were right, Eleanor wasn’t the only one who did.

“Yes, and Lucy. And Auntie Isobel, and Uncle Dickie,” Mary reminded her, watching her face light up at the mention of more of her favourite people.

“And Uncle Tom, and Auntie Elsie,” Mary continued, playfully nibbling Eleanor’s fingers and tickling her ribs, holding her tight while she squealed.

“Papa!” She got out between fits of laughter, hoping her father would come to her rescue. Thankfully, Mary let up on her torture and the child fell back, completely boneless from the exertion.

“Well, I hope you’re packed young lady,” George warned. “And that you’ve told nanny that…” He trailed off as a thought dawned on him, and by the look on his wife’s face, had dawned on her too. He locked eyes with Mary over Eleanor’s head.

“Nora,” Mary started, dreading the answer to the question she was about to ask. “Where’s nanny?”

Silence.

“Did you come here on your own?”

Eleanor stayed quiet.

“Eleanor,” Mary warned, keeping her eyes locked on George’s, her nerves climbing all too quickly.

Eleanor shifted slightly at her mother’s tone and the use of her Christian name but kept her eyes resolutely fixed on the bedsheet.

“Eleanor Jane you tell me right this instant, did you come here on your own?!”

Both parents watched as the three-year-old nodded mutely. Their fears confirmed, Mary exhaled a shuddering breath as she looked to her husband. George closed his eyes in defeat, running his fingers through his hair.

“That’s the fourth time this week, George,” Mary whispered.

“I know,” he muttered, inhaling, and exhaling deeply, not wanting to scare his daughter with his temper.

“We might have to start telling Miss Wilks to lock her door on a night,” Mary stated, regretfully. Miss Wilks was Eleanor’s nanny, who loved her charge, but had definitely prematurely gained grey hairs from the ordeal. Not ideal for a woman in her early thirties.

George sighed, knowing that really neither one of them wanted to have to do that. Relatively calm, he turned to his daughter, who was still staring at the bedspread.

“Eleanor, what have we said about wandering off on your own?”

Eleanor bowed her head, her bottom lip trembling. “Sowy, Papa.”

George’s heart broke at his daughter’s tears. “Nora come here,” he said gently, holding out his arms for his daughter to clamber into. He sat himself against the headboard, Mary pressed against his side, as Eleanor sat on his lap, facing the pair of them and crying quietly.

“Darling, you can’t keep wandering off like this,” Mary explained. “You could get lost! Or hurt! And no one would know where you were!”

Eleanor sniffled, wiping her nose on the yellow sleeve of her nightgown, refusing to meet her parent’s eyes.

George tucked his forefinger under her chin, forcing her head up gently to look at them. Her bright blue eyes were watery, tears continuously leaking from them. 

“Sweetheart, we’re just trying to keep you safe. Do you understand that?” George asked sternly but not without warmth. Eleanor nodded, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hand as she sniffled.

“Shhhh,” Mary soothed, tenderly swiping her baby’s tears away with her thumb, cradling her small face in her palm. “It’s alright, my love. As long as you promise not to do it again. Can you promise me?”

Eleanor nodded fervently, her curls bouncing frantically around her face as she did. “Pwomise,” she said meekly.

“Alright,” Mary smiled faintly. George pulled Eleanor to him, letting her curl up against his chest, face turned towards Mary. Mary angled herself towards them and tucked herself against him, bumping noses with their little girl. George wrapped his arms around both of them, kissing the top of Mary’s head while rubbing Eleanor’s back. Mary ran her fingers through the messy curls on her daughter’s head, unpicking the tangles as she went until she could run them freely through without encountering resistance.

With her Mama playing with her hair, and her Papa’s heartbeat in her ear, Eleanor was asleep within minutes, leaving her parents wide awake. A complete 180 degree turn from how the situation had been no more than a half an hour before when she had woken them.

“What are we going to do with her?” Mary asked, exasperated but with an unmistakable fondness.

George just shook his head, completely clueless. “She’ll give me grey hairs before she’s through.”

Mary snorted. “I’m sorry to tell you, George, but you’ve been grey for quite a while now.”

George raised an eyebrow, looking down his nose at his wife. “Are you calling me old?”

“If the cap fits,” Mary replied archly.

“You little minx,” George whispered playfully as he pinched her behind, making her yelp in surprise.

“George!” she hissed, her eyes sweeping over her daughter praying she wouldn’t wake, though her shout didn’t seem to have disturbed her.

“What?” Butter wouldn’t melt.

“Incorrigible,” Mary muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Only where you’re concerned,” he said, stealing a kiss, delighting at the way Mary melted into him.

The sudden movement of Eleanor wriggling caused them both to freeze.

“Oh God, please don’t wake up,” George whispered. They waited with bated breath, only releasing it when they saw her settle back down again, smacking her lips in complete oblivious content.

“It’d teach you a valuable lesson if she had.”

George pinched Mary’s side, feeling her squirm away from his hand, causing him to laugh quietly as she swatted his arm.

“You should get some more sleep. It’s a long drive.”

Mary lifted her head to look at him. “Will you not be sleeping too?”

George shook his head. “I’m happy to stay like this, besides I’m sure Miss Wilks will be making her appearance. Go back to sleep, love.”

Mary hummed her consent, nestling against her husband’s shoulder, and following her daughter’s example was asleep in a matter of minutes.

George smiled fondly, knowing he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep now he was up. He knew they only had until about half seven, when no doubt a panicked Miss Wilks would come knocking. So, he laid there, just content to hold his girls for the moment, whilst they slept on.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Saturday 27th December 1930 11:00 am

The rumble of car engines greeted them as they descended the stone stairs, the young children clasped firmly in any adult's hand, with the except of the months old Princess Margaret, who was fussing in her mother’s arms. Five cars lined up ever so presentably, their doors held wide open by footmen. Five cars were of course needed to cope with the sheer volume of people travelling the hundred or so miles from the Royal Norfolk estate of Sandringham to Downton Abbey in the north of Yorkshire. It was a long distance to travel with two _delightful_ squealing children.

Which is precisely what Mary and George found themselves doing as they ushered Lilibet and Nora into the first car at the front of the line-up. Elizabeth and Eleanor had been practically inseparable since the younger could crawl. They ran circles around their parents/grandparents/siblings (it was all very complex), literally on several occasions, making the adults quite dizzy.

But truthfully they were sweet children and were doted on accordingly. Or perhaps too much as Elizabeth and Mary would often complain. 

Nevertheless, they were still children, and children were not ones first choice of car companion.

“Remind me again why we agreed to this,” George muttered as he climbed into the car, collapsing in the seat next to his wife with an exaggerated sigh.

“You know why,” Mary tutted at him, who, despite her disapproving glare, was no more looking forward to the four-hour journey than he was. “Elizabeth and Bertie have the baby, and Nora started crying when you initially said no.”

“I was a weak and foolish man.”

Mary hummed her agreement, smiling sweetly when her husband turned his own glare on her. The two girls were chatting animatedly in the seats across from them, legs swinging excitedly as the car moved off.

“We could’ve let David take them,” George mumbled, as the girls laughed and squealed, repeatedly chanting what George assumed was supposed to be ‘Downton Abbey’ but didn’t quite sound like it.

Mary swallowed, but remained quiet. 

“May,” he whispered. “She’s in no danger from a car journey to Downton. She would’ve been fine with David.”

“I know,” she said, chewing the inside of her lip. “But I would rather she be here with me.”

George glanced over at her and could see the tears brimming in her eyes. He let out a soft sigh, which he knew she heard as she turned her face to the window in shame. She was getting better with being separated from Eleanor but was still very reluctant to if she could avoid doing so. George knew it could not go on like it was. And whilst he understood her fears, perhaps even shared them himself, they needed to address it and work through it together.

The girl’s chattering’s were background noise to George, as he slipped his hand over Mary’s clenched fist. She kept her face to the window but didn’t resist his touch or flinch away. After a moment, George felt her hand ease, the opening of her palm allowing him to intertwine his fingers with hers, squeezing gently. He smiled as she squeezed back.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Saturday 27th December 1930 2:50 pm

It had become tradition, after that fateful year of 1927, for the royal family to ring in the new year at the Crawley’s country home of Downton Abbey. They would spend Christmas, and Nora’s birthday, in their traditional manner at Sandringham, but instead of remaining until sometime in the new year, they would pack up their belongings and on the 27th would set off to Downton Abbey, where they would stay for two weeks.

The regularity of these visits, and of course the London Season which the Crawley’s now always stayed at Buckingham Palace for by invitation of the King and Queen, did nothing to ease the perfectionist nature to which each detail was attended to. While the staff were more at ease in the presence of the Windsor clan, they were still acutely aware that they were serving royalty, and so the pomp and circumstance of a forgotten era was brought back full force by the two butlers of Downton.

Carson always came back to Downton for this event, affording the royal staff a small holiday and an even spread of work between the two men, and allowing Thomas to have some time with his Mr Ellis, though Charles would admit that to no one but Elsie. He by no means approved, but he saw he had no right to deny the man any happiness he was fortunate to receive.

Mr Ellis had actually arrived the day before with Miss Lawton, bring preparatory belongings of both the King and Queen with them. He and Mr Barrow had departed not long after to spend a night in York visiting Richard’s mother and father for Christmas and wouldn’t be back for at least another hour.

It was for this reason Mr Carson now stood at the head of the staff line up, as they watched the five Royals cars trundle up the long driveway and park in front of the assembled crowd. The footmen stepped forward to open the doors, but no sooner had they done, out from the front-most car sprang two giggling little girls who then proceeded to run circles around the two hosts.

“Goodness me,” gasped Cora, who reached out to grasp Robert’s arm for balance as she was hit full force by a tiny body running into her legs. “You’re both certainly full of energy.”

“Don’t we know it,” grumbled George, who ambled out the car followed by an equally disgruntled looking Queen. “Girls! Will you stand still for one moment!?”

Nora and Lilibet ground to a halt and fought to, unsuccessfully, hide their giggles by keeping their eyes trained on the ground. George fought the urge to roll his eyes while Mary sighed wearily. She caught the eye of the Scottish housekeeper, who was biting back her own amusement, and gave a small, exasperated shrug to which the woman responded with a huff of laughter.

Eleanor followed her mother’s eyeline and spotted her godmother amongst the sea of faces.

“AWNTIE EWSIE!” The little girl took off at full force, running headfirst towards the housekeeper, who no doubt would have been knocked off her feet had she not crouched in anticipation for the little whirlwind.

“Hello, little monster,” Elsie chuckled affectionately as she stood with the little imp wrapped around her. Charles watched proudly, practically preening like a peacock because his wife was godmother to a child of the King and Queen of England. He smiled warmly as Mrs Carson and Anna spoke enthusiastically with the child in the older woman’s arms, who was clearly very happy to see her godmother. Lilibet had occupied herself elsewhere; the elsewhere being Tom and Lucy who were swinging the girl up between them as they walked inside, one of her hands clasped in each of theirs as she shrieked with glee.

“Did you have a pleasant ride?” Cora asked Mary once her charges had escaped her for newer victims.

Mary groaned quietly. “It was hell. Had I known it would be this torturous I would’ve refused to have any children at all.”

Cora laughed aloud, drawing confused glances from their husbands who walked ahead of them. Mary joined in her laughter, continuing until they reached the door and she realised Eleanor hadn’t followed them. Mary spun round, and to her relief, found her still in the arms of the housekeeper, laughing at something Carson had said.

“Nora,” she called, catching the attention of her daughter, her daughter’s godmother, and the godmother’s husband. “Come inside, darling.”

Once Eleanor was placed on the floor, she started to run to her mother, before halting suddenly, twirling back around to the housekeeper and butler, offering a cheerful “bye-bye!” and a little wave before turning back around and skipping the rest of the way to the door where Mary was waiting. She took Mary’s hand and the two disappeared inside with Cora.

“She’s precious,” Anna smiled kindly, having delightedly watched the whole exchange. “And very sweet.”

Charles nodded his agreement as the three walked towards the front door to close it, as the last people stood outside. “That she is.”

“And three-years-old already, can you imagine?” sighed Elsie. “Seems like only yesterday we were at her christening.”

“And she let out an almighty scream when the Archbishop poured the water over her head,” Anna supplied, grinning at the memory.

“Well, I don’t blame her,” sympathised Elsie, as she and Charles latched the doors shut. “I doubt I’d want to be doused in inordinately cold water, in a freezing cold church, in the middle of winter. I’m surprised all she did was scream.”

Anna sniggered. “Well. I’d best get on.”

The older couple watched her go, before their attention was caught by the laughter emerging from the library. The door was open, and they could see an exchange of late Christmas gifts taking place, the two little princesses tearing into a rather large box with glee with the help of their fathers who were being covered with wrapping paper in return for their efforts to help. Elsie smiled fondly at the scene, studying the pure joy of the children’s, and adult’s faces.

“We’d best get on as well, I think, if we are to be ready for the new year.” Charles’ deep baritone broke into Elsie’s reverie, snapping her out of her trance.

“Yes, certainly,” Elsie agreed, sparing one last glance at the adorable scene before bustling off to her tasks, keys jingling at her hip.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tuesday 30th December 1930 3:30 pm

The days that followed their arrival at the abbey were always stuffed full of activities, usually of the outdoor variety, just as the King liked it. So, the three days between their departure from Sandringham and the New Year, would be filled with such activities. The landscape of Downton provided the prime location for the shoot of pheasants and partridges from autumn through till February. A morning shoot was often preferred and afternoon walk, with plenty time in between and after for people to warm themselves by the fire.

While the men would no doubt be out on the shoot every day, a shared passion by all, it varied as to which of the women would accompany them and who would remain with the children. Today it had been the Queen, Edith and Isobel who had stayed behind, Mary quite thankful for the excuse due to her excessive fear of loud noises and general hatred of the sport itself. Something none of her children seemed to inherit thankfully enough.

The first drive had long since passed, and the women rotated their positions. The third drive ended up with Cora, Elizabeth and Maud accompanying David and Bertie, the two men impressively good shots, though not as good as their father. As was witnessed.

“Bollocks,” David cursed as he missed every single bird.

“Wash your mouth out,” Elizabeth demanded while Bertie sniggered. “And don’t you encourage him,” she snapped, rounding on her husband who held up his hands in surrender. “Imagine if the children heard you!”

“Wouldn’t…d-dream of it dearest,” he assured his wife. A sentiment that would have been a lot more convincing had Maud not snorted her amusement at it.

“A little late for that I’d wager,” she chuckled causing Elizabeth to spin round in alarm.

“Bertie!” she cried.

“On no, not him,” Maud corrected her, “Him.”

David whipped his head round to see the lady in question pointing her finger at him accusingly but with a merry twinkle in her eye.

“I thought we agreed not to talk about that,” he stared the woman blank in the face, Bertie frantically nodding in agreement, praying the woman wouldn’t sell them out. But their frightened faces did nothing to falter the smile on her face. In fact, it only served to egg her on.

“Oh, we did,” she agreed. “I promised I would never say a word to your parents about it, but since I see neither of them here with us I do not believe I am breaking that promise.”

David expressed his annoyance at that in a low growl, Maud took that to mean he conceded defeat and she stood by looking rather smug.

“Well Maud, what did he do?” Elizabeth asked insistently.

“Do you remember…oh, maybe one and a half, two years back, when Nora was starting to learn to talk...well...relatively properly?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“And she had the habit of picking up random words to repeat from others.” Maud continued.

“Oh yes, and there was that instance where she kept saying…” Elizabeth trailed off, realisation having dawned on her. She rounded on the two men with a completely scandalised look on her face.

“That was you?!” she asked, aghast at the prospect. Maud stood back in satisfaction as both David and Bertie cowered under the look the Duchess gave them. Cora just looked increasingly more confused with every second.

“What on earth are you talking about?” she asked uncomprehendingly. She looked at Maud expecting her to answer, but Elizabeth got there first.

“These two,” she seethed, pointing at the two princes, who were desperately and fearfully trying to disappear into themselves. “Are the reason that Nora learnt to swear at one and a half years of age!”

“What?” Cora gasped, her eyes lighting up with mischievous glee.

“Well,” David sighed, as he attempted to defend his actions. “We were in the nursery at the time, playing I can’t even remember what.”

“Racing cars,” Bertie supplied.

“Yes, yes, that’s it,” David agreed, distractedly waving his hand. “And it was the three of us against each other, me, Bertie and Georgie. I had lost marginally…”

Bertie barked out a laugh causing David to glare at him before continuing with his story. “And I may have lost my temper slightly,” Bertie raised his eyebrows at that. “And...and called them both...arses.”

Cora’s eyes widened nodding along, having a feeling she knew exactly what happened next, though to David's credit it was not the most offensive curse he could have come up with.

“All of a sudden, out of nowhere, the little pipsqueak suddenly pipes up with a loud ‘arse!’, and no matter what we did, she just would not stop saying it! She just kept getting louder and louder every time we told her to stop!”

“I think she enjoyed our p-p-panic,” said Bertie, scowling at the thought. Their sister, and goddaughter, was pure evil at times in his eyes. He wouldn't have been surprised if one day someone told him she was actually the spawn of Lucifer himself. 

David grunted his agreement. He adored Nora, but that little girl could be a true terror when she wanted to be. “Anyway, we eventually got her to stop and we thought that was the end of it. But then later that night when we were all in the drawing room and Papa had disappeared to give Nora her bath, when suddenly he came storming in with a face like thunder, demanding to know why in the name of hell his one-year-old daughter was screaming ‘arse’ over and over again at the top of her lungs.”

Both Princes shuddered at the memory. In truth their father had roared like a wild beast causing all but one of his sons to quake in terror, but none had cracked and told him. It was only because Maud had caught their panicked glances after the King had left that she cornered them after dinner and demanded them tell her.

“He was livid,” Elizabeth recalled. “I cannot fathom how you got away with that.”

David looked at Bertie who shrugged. “Pure luck,” he suggested.

“But you mustn’t tell anyone,” David pleaded, all but dropping to his knees. “He’d have our heads!”

“I wouldn’t blame him,” Maud cackled, Cora joining in with her. Even Elizabeth’s lips twitched a smile.

“No, y-you don’t…understand. He will k-kill us,” Bertie implored, David frantically nodding along.

Elizabeth pursed her lips, pretending to think. “I suppose…” she started slowly. “That we could spare you…this once anyway. Can’t we ladies?” Cora and Maud nodded, smirking.

“You are saints, all of you,” David sighed relived that he wouldn’t have to face his death at such a young age, Bertie expressing his relief by kissing his wife passionately for all to see while she squealed with laughter.

David cleared his throat, which Bertie must have heard, having released his laughing wife, and was now slightly pink from embarrassment. David pretended not to notice, drawing attention back to their failed shoot instead. “Now I do believe there are more birds for Romeo and I to shoot at and not kill.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wednesday 31st December 1930 11:55 pm

“Is that everyone?” Robert called across the crowd of aristocrats and royalty, as he handed out the champagne flutes, making sure everyone had one. They were stood in the great hall around the fireplace, the gramophone whirling a tune, the lights from the Christmas tree twinkling away, waiting for the clock to chime. The staff had descended for the night, as was customary, for them to celebrate the new year in their own way.

They’d all had a positively marvellous night, dancing and singing, the drinks continuously flowing from bottle to glass and from glass to mouth, and it would be right on the money to say there was not a sober person in the room. It would however be impossible to determine who was the _least_ sober. Consider it a small mercy the nanny had put the children to bed a few hours ago.

It had been Robert and Maud who had initiated the singing, both sufficiently inebriated as of 9 o’clock that evening, both on the receiving end of Violet’s scolding tone and her cane, which they had retained enough reflexes with which to dodge it. David and his brothers had long given up the pretences of a glass, each holding a bottle in his hand (Georgie had one in each hand), and Elizabeth and Mary were too drunk to scold them. Those two were sat squashed between Isobel and Mary Talbot, guessing at what charade Edith was acting out; _most unsuccessfully_ it must be noted while Henry Talbot and Bertie Pelham threw out misleading commentaries. The rest were dancing to what little tune they could hear over the rambunctious screaming; Cora had secured a partner in Dickie, Tom with Lucy, and the Queen was being led by Henry Lascelles.

George stood in the corner enjoying the festivities, his eyes presently observing the dancing trio of couples. He took a moment to watch Tom and his young beau, who were more swaying to the music than actually dancing, locked in what George could only assume was an intimate conversation. He smirked as he watched Tom steal a kiss, Lucy blushing furiously to the roots of her hair, both completely unaware they were being watched. Though there were fairly safe in the knowledge that likely no one would remember if they had seen them, George was seeing double as it was, no doubt the others were seeing triple.

‘Good on them,’ he thought approvingly. He liked the young couple, Tom an outstanding young man who he knew would make Lucy happy; Lucy herself a sweet young woman, with a bright mind and smile. Yes, they would do well together.

Not wanting to stare any longer, George shifted his gaze to someone whom he enjoyed staring at very much. Mary was dressed head to toe in silver and diamonds, the sparkle making her blue eyes shine brighter than either, her radiant smile making the corners crinkle and her nose scrunch, exactly like Nora. She had forgone her tiara tonight, as well as most of her signature jewels, wearing only one necklace and her wedding rings.

George lazily pushed himself off the column he was leaning on, strolling through the throng of drunkards until he reached them. Clearing his throat to catch their attention, they turned to him with such a look of surprise that suggested they’d forgotten he was even there.

“May I?” He asked amused, holding out his hand for his wife to take.

Henry inclined his head, taking Mary’s right hand and placing it in George’s outheld left. “Certainly.”

George pulled Mary flush against him, letting out a huff of laughter as they watch their son-in-law stumble his way back to his own wife.

“Can’t handle his whiskey poor man,” he whispered to Mary, who stumbled as if on cue. He raised his eyebrows at her whilst she collapsed against him in a fit of giggles. “The same could be said for you, my love,” he said, knowing full well he was just as, if not more drunk than she was.

“Pffffft,” Mary replied intelligently, wafting her hand around in objection.

“Clearly I’m quite wrong.”

“I’ll have you know, good sir,” she said in an exaggeratedly prim voice. “I,” she paused for effect, or was more likely trying to remember what she was saying. “Am not drunk.”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

Mary swatted his chest, laughing even louder now. “I am perfectly capable of handling my drink.”

“Oh, that I know well enough,” George agreed. “You’re just no match for me.”

Mary stared at him affronted, her mouth gaping in offence. Her outraged expression had George roaring with laughter.

“Is that a challenge,” she demanded.

“Only if you’re prepared to lose,” George chuckled.

“Put your money where your mouth is mister,” she hissed, pointing her finger at him warningly, clearly ignoring the mirth twinkling in George’s eye as her competitive nature took its hold.

“How much?”

Mary pondered this for a moment, letting her husband sway her gently in his arms that had encircled her waist completely. “£2?”

George’s eyes widened comically. “A whole £2?”

“Bit steep for you, darling?” Mary teased. “You could always buy me a new necklace.” 

George nodded his head approvingly. “Ah yes, now that seems more reasonable to me.”

Mary laughed, threading her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You idiot.”

The tolling of the clock prevented his answer as the new year dawned on them, cries of “Happy new year” springing from all directions, left, right, the floor, where Bertie and Mary now sat/slumped. But the King and Queen paid their two children no mind.

“Happy new year, sweetheart,” George whispered, bringing their foreheads together, nudging her face upwards to his.

“Happy new year,” she murmured, meeting him in an open-mouthed deep kiss that set all her nerves alight. Their mouths fused together, they barely heard Georgie shouting at them to “get a room” before going quite green when realising it was his parents he'd said it too.

“It’s not a bad suggestion,” George mumbled against her lips.

“I do have a perfectly nice room upstairs,” she agreed, nipping his bottom lip with her teeth.

“Won’t your husband mind?”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

\---------------

The door forcefully bounced off the wall, rattling on its hinges as the bodyweight of both George and Mary combined slammed into it. They, however, were too wrapped up in each other to notice, George barely managing to clip the door close with his heels, as they stumbled into the room. Their bodies pressed heatedly together against the first wall they encounter, Mary’s back landing against it with a dull thud.

The smell of her perfume, the soft, vanilla scent of her skin was dizzying; butterflies dancing in his stomach as George kissed his way down Mary’s neck. His shallow breath and the whiskery scratches of his beard were sending shivers straight through her; contrasting the warmth that consumed her very being, spreading itself outwards from the burning in her core. Mary’s eyes were half-lidded, the sharp nips of teeth pulling gasps from her parted lips, as George reached around her, fiddling with the buttons lining the back of her dress.

“So many damn buttons,” George mumbled in irritation, as the task of removing his wife’s clothes became increasingly harder by the second; not a development he particularly approved of.

“Forget the buttons,” Mary’s breath hitched as her husband’s hands abandoned their task, one hand reaching up to cup her breast through the material, the other reaching down to slowly pull her skirts up her legs. Mary’s hands had pushed George’s evening coat from his shoulders, along with the waistcoat she had unbuttoned, having had more success with that than him, and was now pulling his shirt from its confines.

George groaned as one set of her nails raked over the small bit of skin of his back that she had uncovered, the other tugging at his hair to bring his wonderful mouth back to hers. It was a messy clash of teeth and tongue, the taste of their shared breath, the thud of their combined heartbeat, as Mary hooked one of her legs round his hip, aiding him in the task of lifting her skirts. George had managed to use the low cut of Mary’s dress to his advantage, slipping it from her shoulders. He swore when it would go no further, tugging so hard that a rip was heard, and the material dropped to her waist under its own heavy weight.

Mary moaned softly, as George kissed his way down her body, affording special attention to her breasts. He traced his tongue over her skin, down her sternum, her abdomen, lifting her leg from his hip to rest over his shoulder. Mary sighed softly as she ran her hands slowly over his broad shoulders and neck, her nails catching ever so slightly on his skin. George gently spread Mary’s legs further with his warm, strong hands and delicately nipped the soft interior of her thigh, sucking and kissing his way up her leg. 

Mary shuddered as she felt his warm breath ghost her centre, drawing closer and closer until…

“OH,” Mary cried, her hands scrambling to seek purchase on anything to hold her upright, eventually landing with one on the dresser next to her, the other in George’s hair. "Oh, George."

George paid her whimpers and gasps no mind, continuing his assault, provoking little screams from his wife, who desperately bit her lip in attempt to stifle them. All too soon, her legs began to tremble, ascending into a full shake, her voice rising in pitch.

“Oh God,” she panted, pulling him closer to her with the leg hooked over his shoulder.

“That’s it, darling,” he muttered, the hand holding her leg giving a reassuring squeeze as she cried out her release.

“Oh. Oh God, I love you,” she gasped out as it rocked through her, eyes fluttering shut with the force, as her weight collapsed onto her husband. Lowering her leg, George rose up to his full height, pulling Mary flush against him while she still trembled.

“I love you, darling,” he whispered claiming her in a kiss. He kept her skirts bunched by her hip as he lifted her up, grinning wolfishly at her squeal of surprise as he carried her over to the bed, laying her down on it.

Mary sighed against his mouth, her breath gently sweeping his face.

“Happy, darling?” George asked, rising up just enough to see her face.

Mary smiled coyly, her grin adopting a feline likeness. “Not quite, no.”

“Now we can’t have that” George admonished, drawing her legs tighter around him as he rolled them over, both of them laughing. Neither one of them noticing the direction in which they rolled.

THUD.

“GEORGE!” Mary shrieked, landing on her husband’s chest as they rolled off the bed. George howled with laughter, or as close to howl as he could manage, the impact of the fall had knocked quite a bit of air from him.

“George it’s not funny,” Mary giggled, as George wheezed. He eventually calmed, and they lay there, Mary's chin resting on his chest, listening to the singing that had once again resumed downstairs.

“Happy new year, my love,” George chuckled.

“Happy new year, Georgie,” Mary replied, grinning happily, as her husband cupped his hand round the back of her neck to bring her laughing mouth down to his.

They continued to lay on the floor, completely wrapped up in one another, listening to the voices of their friends and family drifting from the hall.

_“For auld lang syne, my dear_

_  
For auld lang syne_

_  
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet_

_  
For auld lang syne.”_

_....._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, let me know what you guys think!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


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